


Glimpses

by RedSneakers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:31:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSneakers/pseuds/RedSneakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life goes on long after the Second War is gone. This is a story of Hermione and Bellatrix Black from the eye of their daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sorting

I am fidgeting, literally fidgeting – and I _don’t_ usually fidget, as I am following my fellow classmates, the First Years, to the Great Hall of Hogwarts. I am paying no attention at all to the details and majestic design of my surrounding as I walk; the chatters around me seem to fall to the background of my brain, drowned by the sound of my own thoughts.

Feeling a clammy hand slip into my own, I glance up to see the owner of the pale hand holding mine and see a pair of blue eyes looking at me worriedly as if searching for comfort. Hugo Weasley looks paler than usual and I’m kind of worried that he’s going to faint – or worse, be sick all over me like he did back on the picnic when we were younger. I give him a smile, crooked as I’m nervous as well, but it seems to calm him down.

“I’m scared, Dru,” he whispers quietly, “Dad’ll kill me if I’m not in Gryffindor.”

I squeeze his hand and try to fight the urge to roll my eyes at his last comment. With two Gryffindors as parents? His chance of being sorted into other Houses other than the lion’s den is slim to none (although it’s not a guarantee, as Mama always tells me, but there’s no need adding his misery now as much as I’d love to see him squirm).  “You’ll be fine. Just don’t look around,” I suggest. I see him nod from the corner of my eyes and he hangs his head low, never letting go of my hand.

I, being my mothers’ daughter, am not really good at following suggestions even if I am the one who make the suggestion. So I do the stupidest thing in the world – I look around. My eyes first land on the far left table, where I see James Potter and he begins to stand up and wave frantically to grab my and his cousin’s attention when he sees us. I ignore him and turn my head to the other side of the hall. I spot my Nephew Scorpius sitting among his friends at what I suppose is Slytherin table but he doesn’t seem to see me.

When my eyes land to the teacher’s table it’s not difficult to spot my mothers – I’d recognise them anywhere; they are sitting side by side at one end of the table, chatting idly with each other. Mama – I mean, Professor Granger (I forget about our deal for a second here) – sees me first; she nudges at Mother before smiling at me and suddenly my world seems a bit brighter. She is magical that way, my Mama is. Professor Black winks at me and I feel myself blush. I look around to see if anyone noticed, but I think everyone is too caught up with what the Headmistress has to say at that moment.

Headmistress McGonagall speaks for what seems like forever before the sorting begins. My heart begins to thump louder against my ribcage as she calls out the names of children. I almost curse Mother for having a name with the second alphabet as the initial when I hear my name being called.

“Druella Black,” the Headmistress’ voice rings across the hall.

For a second I can’t move but I manage to catch myself and walk forward. Headmistress McGonagall looks a lot older than I’ve imagined before, I contemplate as she ushers me to a high stool. She catches my eyes and there’s a gleam in her eyes – recognition that is beyond a surname, perhaps, since I look a lot like Mother – before she puts the hat on me.

...

“Oh another Black,” the Hat suddenly speaks _in my head!_ “You people never stop breeding, do you?”

I ignore that comment but roll my eyes nonetheless; I am not going to add ‘arguing with a hat-that-speaks-in-my-head’ to the ever growing list of my stupidity.

“Now, now, let’s see what you’ve got here” the Hat proceeds, “You’ve certainly got your mother’s blood and talent inside you.”

“Which mother?” I scoff sarcastically.

“Ah, a feisty one – I like it. Fine, _both mothers,_ if it pleases you. Now sit still for a second and stop that brain of yours from squirming so much; I’m getting too old for this. I see–.. interesting. Your Black blood pumps into your heart, child, and it _yearn_ to go to Slytherin just like every noble member of your House Black does – save one whom I sent to Gryffindor.”

There’s a smile on my face now. A proper house for the youngest Black – Mother will be proud. However, the next thing the Hat says bursts my bubble.

“Hmm... how peculiar; Slytherin is not where you are meant to be.”

My heart sinks a little – only a little, because it only means one thing. “Gryffindor then?” I whisper with every ounce of hope I have left. When the Hat keeps its silence I begin to dread the worst – that it will announce that this is a mistake and that I, Druella Black, am a Squib.

“You’re not a Squib. Now stop interrupting me,” replies the Hat as it reads my mind, “There is a lion roaring in you but I have to say that Gryffindor is not for you, either.”

“I can’t _not_ be in either two!” I plead desperately.

“The blood says Slytherin and the heart is torn between the lion and the serpent – but it is clear that the head belongs to something else. You are destined great thing in your future; however, it won’t happen lest you are surrounded who share the same thirst and longing as yours. And Black, you are the first of your blood so smile a little and let’s welcome you to RAVENCLAW!”

The last part is shouted to the hall, I’m sure, since I hear a loud applause erupt from one of the four tables – _Ravenclaw_ table.

Professor McGonagall takes the hat off me. I can see confusion and surprise in her eyes but she only offers congratulation as I jump off the stool and walk to my table, smiling weakly as everyone pats me on the back and offers their hands as a welcome gesture.

I can feel several pairs of eyes on me but I avoid them all. The Potters and Weasleys must be looking at me with pity; Nephew Scorpius will be smirking – oh I can imagine what he is going to write his grandparents first thing in the morning: “ _Dear Grandpa Lucius, our little Aunt Dru is a raven. A Black who is not in Slytherin – isn’t that some news?_ ”. I grit my teeth at the thought.

And then there are my mothers. Thinking about them makes me feel bile forming at the back of my throat, blocking my airway. Mother must be beyond displeased. I’m her only daughter and I fail to live up to her expectation to be a respectable Black. And Mama; I know that I’ve disappointed her too. She is never hard to please but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have expectations on me. A daughter of a lion and a serpent in Ravenclaw – how very unfitting.

As the sorting continues, I feel my heart get heavier at every name that belongs to either Slytherin or Gryffindor – that should have been me, I think bitterly. I look up when I hear Hugo’s name being called. The Hat only touches his hair less than five seconds when it shouts Gryffindor for all to hear. And that’s it – my last straw.

I scramble on my feet and find a girl Prefect – I still don’t remember her name.

“What is it?” she whispers worriedly, “Are you ill? You look so pale.”

I shake my head. “I just need to go to the rest room,” I make a feeble excuse. She nods and directs me there, telling me to be back quickly before dinner is over. I mumble my thanks and scramble out of the Hall. I need to be alone.

Before I’ve walked too far away from the Hall, I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around and instinctively raise my wand (a silly motion, really, since I can’t defend myself properly with it yet) but then I find my Mama standing behind me. I lower my wand.

“Dru, are you alright?” she asks in that loving tone that makes the dam in me begin to crumble. I run to her and bury my head in her chest as the first tears begin to fall. “Sweetie, what’s the matter?” Mama rocks me back and forth in her arms, making soothing circle on my back with her hand. “Dru, sweetheart, are you ill?”

“I’m sorry,” I cry.

“Sorry for what?”

How can she ask me that? Sorry for what? Doesn’t see understand?! I’ve failed her – I’ve failed them both. Her question only adds fuel to the fire and I sob even harder. It takes me a moment to realise that we are no longer alone. I stiffen in Mama’s arms before I recognise the sharp click of boots against the floor. When the clicking stops and Mother is looming over us, I close my eyes tightly and bury my head even further to Mama’s robe, not wanting Mother to see me.

“Oh, little _raven_ is crying,” Mother drawls lazily in a mock tone.

“Bella,” Mama warns her in a sombre tone and I know that she is giving Mother a look.

I hear the rustle of Mother’s dress as she sits next to us on the floor and sighs audibly. She surprises me when she takes me from Mama’s arms into her own embrace before placing me on her lap.

“Upset, are we?” she enquires using a tone that is closer to a statement than a question. I nod silently, fiddling with the hem of her black dress instead of looking at her. “Well, look at the bright side, little bird,” she goes on cutting to the chase as if knowing what is bothering me, “at least you’re not in Hufflepuff.”

“Bella!”

“What?” Mother sounds offended. “It’s true. If she isn’t a Slytherin or a Gryffindor, then being a Ravenclaw is the last viable option. At least it shows that she’s smart enough to be among those birds. Aren’t I lenient enough?”

 “You’re incorrigible,” Mama admonishes with a chuckle, swatting Mother on her upper arm in jest. “Don’t listen to your mother, Dru.”

“Which mother?” Mother and I ask in unison and Mama rolls her eyes.

I tilt my head so I can see Mother better. “You’re not mad I’m not in Slytherin?”

“Well–..” she pauses, exchanging a look with Mama before she continues, “there’s always the first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“You’re not going to cut me off the family tree?”

“Why on earth would I do that?” she sounds genuinely surprised. Again, she glances at Mama but it seems that Mama urges her to deal with me this time. “Who fed you that moronic idea?”

I shrug. “The Hat did say that every noble Black belongs in Slytherin,” I point out.

“And you believe a smelly old hat instead of us – your own mothers?” Mother sighs when I give her no reply. “Look at me,” she says. For what seems like a long time, we only stare at each other’s eyes – dark against dark – and she says nothing. When she speaks again, though, her words touch me to the core. “I’m proud of you, Druella. I don’t care what House you are in – I will never love you any less. It’s just a House; just be your best and that’s all that I ask of you.”

This, coming from Mother, means a lot to me. It’s not that Mama’s opinion isn’t as important but she is different. Mama is always all about showing her feelings, showering me with praises and love, all about supporting me. I know that she will accept me whatever I do and whoever I become. Mother is something else; she is always the first person to rebuke me should I do something wrong. A word of praise rarely comes from her because in her book, as a descendant of Black I am bound to do everything perfectly on the first try.

Mother practically renders me speechless this time – this says a great deal, really, because I am pretty eloquent in general. I can’t even find a word when Mama kisses me and tells me how she is also proud of me and that she’s glad that I am a Ravenclaw (she told me that the Hat wanted her to be in Ravenclaw before changing its mind back when she started school, so maybe it _does_ run in the family after all).

“Of course, if you happened to be sorted into Hufflepuff, the idea of cutting you off the family tree is somewhat appealing,” Mother, of course, has to add. It earns her another glare from Mama and a smile from me. She is only joking – her eyes tell me so. “Now go back to the Hall before I take your House points for making me starve.”

“Yes, Professor,” I respond. It feels like all my burdens have evaporated into thin air. I wave at them then run back to the Great Hall, leaving the two behind me. The Headmistress has just begun her speech when I squeeze myself between two First Years at the table – Ravenclaw table, _my_ House.

The school year has just begun and I’m going to make the best of it.  


	2. The Stigma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it is hard to understand why people are so cruel; why they use words to hurt others.

Being a Ravenclaw has its own quirks. For instance, we birds don't care about our ancestry – be it Muggle-born, Pure Blood, or Half Blood – we simply just don't give a thought about it. Unlike other Houses, our social status is laid upon our intelligence rather than family ties. Ravenclaws don't care whether you come from the purest, noblest, oldest family in wizarding history or if you happen to come from the dirtiest, poorest slum in Muggle society; anything is looked over as long as you don't flunk your exams – when that's the case then please welcome yourself at the bottom of our food chain.

As Ravenclaws, somehow we're bound to be chummy with Hufflepuffs – they're very friendly people, get in a little bit of rivalry with Gryffindors – who happen to have some brains in them, and try to tolerate Slytherins at all matter –our seniors say that but for their magical blood they wouldn't even be considered into Hogwarts; but that is, of course, a subject of debate because I notice some smart serpents in my year.

It's only been a month since the beginning of the semester and to my surprise, I really feel at home here in Ravenclaw. I make friends with every boy and girl in my years and some of the seniors. Somehow along these four weeks they get the impression that I'm either a Muggle-born or have both Muggle-born parents. I don't know what gives them the idea – I suspect it is due the fact that I mentioned something about watching Muggle shows on television at times (well, Grandpa Granger loves his crickets) but maybe it's because I told them that I have two mothers and no father (apparently being raised by two mothers is not unusual in Muggle world and though it is not a subject to be frowned upon in Wizarding society, it is still considered new).

Frankly speaking, I find it weird to be thought as something less than a Black, especially because I spent my whole life being taught about what being a Black means by both my mothers – Mama only emphasises on how I should behave like a proper daughter of hers instead of an uneducated urchin, though. However, I don't find the need of correcting their view of my parentage. Like I said before, bloodline is the least of my concern in Ravenclaw.

It is a pity that other Houses do not share our opinion.

Now my friends and I are walking across the main hall to DADA class in a hurried stride. We don't want to be late for this class for Merlin only knows what Professor Black will do to students who are late – rumour has it the Professor sometimes uses latecomers as willing volunteers for the day's class object to practice various jinxes and hexes. None of us want to test if the rumour is true; we're too sensible for that.

A couple of feet away from our class, we come across a group of older Slytherin kids loitering in the hall, chatting idly. They notice us and point at us. My roommate, Susan Talley, nudges at me but I shake my head, silently warning her against running.

"Why, isn't it Druella Black!" one of them yells in mock tone. I glance, spotting a tall redhead girl, and groan inwardly. The girl is the person who I accidentally knocked down and spilt my pumpkin juice on the other day. This is great, I mutter. "Still not learning your lesson, I see. Doesn't your Muggle mummy teach you manners?"

I roll my eyes but keep my mouth shut. It's not worth it, Dru, I tell myself. I'm not going to fall into her trap and start a fight.

"Oh but it's not only one mummy for her, do you know?" a boy cuts in – I take it he's on his third year, my Nephew Scorpius' classmate. "I heard she has two mummies! Both Muggle-borns!" Laughter erupts from among them and I feel my face redden. I still say nothing though, keeping my head high as I continue walking. But then, then he has to say it! "What is it like to have two Mudblood mummies, Black? Mud and mud, I wonder what it makes you then!"

I freeze on the spot on hearing that word – my mind flashes to Mama's left arm, to the silver scar on it – and I see red. Shoving all my books in Susan's hand, I draw my wand from under my robe and turn around. No one, I repeat – NO ONE insults my mothers and lives to see another day. I couldn't care less if this gets me into trouble or detention or even resulting in my being expelled from school. I have to get my revenge first.

"Oh, did I rub a soft spot?" the boy taunts as I storm toward him, not knowing what awaits next.

Just as I am about to reach him, a flash of silver and black moves past me and beats me to the boy. The next thing I hear is a pained grunt and a thud of body colliding against a brick wall. It takes me a second to realise who it is.

Scorpius Malfoy is holding the boy by his throat with one hand, pressing him hard to the wall. Scorpius' wand is pointed to the boy's nose and their faces are only inches away. "Don't," he hisses threateningly in a tone that is so much like Uncle Lucius when the man is angry, "you dare call her that again, ever!"

"Malfoy, what's your problem, mate?" the redhead girl calls out but Scorpius silences her with a glare. He returns his focus back on the boy in his grip.

"Do you understand me, Flint? Never!"

Flint has turned a shade of purple this moment due to the pressure on his throat but others are too stunned at the display to move and do something. He struggles vainly, hands clawing at an unrelenting Scorpius. As he tries to reply he chokes so he only manages to bob his head up and down frantically. My silver-haired Nephew holds him in that position for a moment longer to make sure that his words sink in before releasing his grip. He takes a step back and watches in disgust as his scared victim takes to his heels without looking back.

Scorpius shoots his fellow Slytherins a challenging glare for them to oppose him. Nobody says a word. Apparently he is quite a brawn among his friends – even though I can't say the same when we're at home. He then turns toward me, eyeing me up and down with anger still gleaming in his eyes – that, along with an unsaid concern that he can't verbally express for nobody in school knows about our family ties, save for the Potter and Weasley children.

I raise my head petulantly and stare back at his blue eyes in the same intensity as wrath still burns hot on my head.

We exchange angry glares at each other before he growls, "You owe me one, Black."

"I owe you nothing, Malfoy – if it hadn't been for your unnecessary interruption, I'd have handled him fine myself," I retort viciously.

"You ungrateful little–.." He doesn't have the chance to finish his sentence. A sharp voice interrupts us from behind me.

"What have we here?" Scorpius' head snaps up and I spin so quickly that my back bumps into his front. Professor Black is standing just a foot away with her hands on her hip, looking as bored as she can – there are no other students in sight, apparently her appearance is enough to scare them away. "Fighting, are we, Scorpius?" she asks as she saunters toward us with her predatory eyes fixed on the two of us.

"No, Professor," I mumble a reply.

"Pardon?" Her voice was smooth as velvet when she speaks the word but not without a dangerous aura that I never saw before. She shoots a glance at me and raises her eyebrows. "Am I talking to you, Miss Black?" she enquires in a low tone.

I shake my head, my cheeks begin to blush. "No, Professor, but I need to expla–.."

"Ah, ah, ah," she cuts me off lazily, waving a finger in front of me. "You don't need to do anything but try to control yourself and not speak unless spoken to. Mind your manners, Miss Black – I don't tolerate impertinence from my students," she rebukes.

I swallow hard, glaring at her angrily but keeping my mouth shut this time. Tears begin to force their way up to my eyes but I command them down. No way am I going to cry because of this. I'm a Black. I keep my gaze steadily at Mother as she diverts her attention toward her grand nephew.

"It's.. it's Flint, Professor. He called Black and her parents 'mudblood'," Scorpius stammers out. Professor Black's eyes darken for a moment but the darkness is gone a second later. There is a silent understanding exchanged among us three: we protect our own – a saying that Mother always emphasises. No matter how annoying our relatives are, they are family and no one harms family.

"I don't see Flint anywhere, boy," murmurs the Professor.

"I told him off," Scorpius states proudly, "I defended her."

A faint smirk forms at the corners of Professor Black's mouth. She pats Malfoy on the shoulder. "Such a gentleman, Scorpius, defending a damsel in distress. Twenty-five points for Slytherin for a genteel act of courage!"

My jaw nearly drops to the ground. Twenty-five points? For the House that just insult our family? Is she out of her mind? "I'm not a damsel in distress," I mutter under my breath.

Unfortunately for me, Mother has the sharpest hearing on earth. She hears what I just said. "What did you just say, Miss Black?" she fishes, "Do you realise how lucky you are that someone bothers to defend you? Show gratitude when gratitude is due. Ten points from Ravenclaw for showing insolence and lack of appreciation!"

"Wait–.. what?" I nearly yell, "Professor! That is not fair! I didn't ask Malfoy to help me – and I wasn't the one starting a fight!" For a moment there I forget that I'm not talking to the Mother who always comes to my defence; that we are not at home; that I'm facing Professor Black.

"Another five points for yelling at a teacher," she declares, looking down at me as if challenging me to protest. She hates it when I yell, she always says that only idiots yell to get their point across. "Oh, and since it seems that you are late to my class – make that another five from Ravenclaw." The dark professor waves a hand at Scorpius, telling him that he can go to his class.

She strolls to the class without even a glance at me and I follow behind her; my jaw is clamped and my fists curl into two balls so tightly that the nails dig into the flesh of my palm. Never in my life have I ever been this angry with my own mother, my idol.

"Sit down, Miss Black," she orders as I close the door behind us, "Scoot, now, before I change my mind and give you a detention."

I shoot her the last angry glower then storm to my seat next to Susan in the back row. I can feel eyes from people around me but I ignore them. I don't even pay attention to what the professor is saying in front of the class. How much I want to scream at her for treating me so unfairly. How much I want to hurt her for siding with the snakes instead of defending me – her own flesh and blood? I bite the inner of my cheek to stop me from crying. I am not going to cry.

Before the class ends, as usual Professor Black divides us into pairs to practice jinxes and counter-jinxes. Woe falls to the Gryffindor boy – Jordan or something – who partners me today. I'm still fuming in the head, still too occupied with the thought of revenge that I practically don't hold back. I'm merciless and he doesn't stand a chance against me and my anger. It's Professor Black herself who finally steps between us and disarms me with a spell when I somehow fail to recognise the boy's signal of yielding. I am panting hard and my face blushes from all the exertion.

"Class is over," Professor Back dismisses us; her eyes are trained on me. As everyone begins to collect their books and leaves the class, she calls me out. All hums and chatters die in an instant and all pairs of eyes are looking at me. "A word," she says.

I stay behind, standing with my back on the wall next to the door as every student who passes me offers a glance of sympathy – even a troll knows that 'a word' with Professor Black isn't exactly an experience of a lifetime. I apologise to Jordan (or is it George?) about earlier when he walks past me but he gives me a friendly smile and tells me all is forgiven.

When the last student has left the room, Professor Black flicks her wand from where she is sitting on her desk, right on the students' homework, and make the door closes. Another flick, and the latch fastens itself. I remain on my spot, holding my books with both hands in front of me. She gives another flick with her wand, mumbling a silencing spell on the room.

With this, I snap. All hell breaks loose as I drop my books, stride towards her, and begin screaming my head off. "How could you!" I yell to her face, by this time the tears I've been holding back fall freely from my eyes, "He insults me – you heard Scorpius – he insults you! He insults Mama! And what did you do? Instead of defending your family, you chose to reduce my points? What is wrong with you, Mother? I can't believe you!"

Mother remains silent as I throw my tantrum, her expression unchanged. That stoic expression only leaves me even angrier than ever and I lose all my control. I feel the urge to hit something, to destroy something, to hurt someone and before my mind even registers what I am doing, I've my wand already drawn. I point it at various objects in class – chairs, desks, practice dummy, everything – and begin to throw all the spells I've learnt at them, destroying everything in my path. I'm so angry that I can't even think anymore.

There is a tiny part of me – the logical part – that tells me how embarrassing I am, lashing out like this in front of her. It reminds me that Mother hates this kind of behaviour. I push the thought away. I don't care.

She stays quiet and I just can't stand the silence any longer. I toss my wand onto the floor with a clatter and lunge at Mother, projecting my anger physically with my fists now – using her as my punch bag.

Mother doesn't flinch when my fists make contact with her body over and over again; she simply stands there and lets me punch. After some time, she speaks coldly, "Are you done?"

The question slaps me into reality; it actually serves better purpose than if it was physically done. All the sudden the bout of anger evaporates in an instant leaving me powerless and weak to the bone. I sag to the floor like a sack of grain and sob, clutching my robe with both my hands, which has started to hurt from earlier. It is then when I hear her move.

I flinch involuntarily when her cool hands touch me but she doesn't relent. She circles my waist with her arm and hoists me up to her lap. I bury my head into her robe as I weep in shame and anger.

"You're being unfair," I croak hoarsely.

"I know," she whispers a reply.

Another drop of hot tear falls from my eye, burning my cheek along its trail. "I hate you," I say, knowing how untrue that was the moment the words leave my lips.

She exhales tiredly. "I know."

We stay in the same position for a while, her supporting my body with her arms and me hanging onto her as if for dear life. I still refuse to look at her – not because I'm afraid that she's going to be mad at me but because I dread to see disappointment in her eyes.

It is her next line – or maybe it is the way that she says it – that makes me finally look up. "I love you, sweetheart," she whispers; there's a crack in her voice. There are no tears in her eyes, but the dark eyes are filled with something so deep that it sends a stab of pang right in my heart – I learn it the hard way that I'm not the only one that's been hurt.

She's hurt, too. My strong and powerful mother is hurt too by the very word that has condemned Mama, her wife. Fresh tears begin to blur my view again and this time I cry for her – for every pain that the word has caused her and for the pain that my ignorance adds to the initial pain.

"Don't cry, Dru," she tells me. Without warning, my mind drifts somewhere to the past – the first time I saw her cry – and I can't bring myself to stop.

...

We were in the study then; I was around five or six if I'm not mistaken. I was half asleep on the bear rug in front of the fire place as it was long past my bed time.

My mothers are on the sofa behind the bear rug. Mama's back was flushed against Mother's front as they were lying down – Mama had her eyes closed but she wasn't asleep. Mother had one arm draped across Mama's stomach, circling her waist as though keeping Mama from falling from the sofa while her fingers traced the seams of Mama's blouse. Her other hand was under Mama's head, used as a pillow. They wore the same expression on their faces – the unguarded one that they only put on when there is nobody else but us three.

I tilted my head to get a better look at them. The burning fire makes Mother's pale skin look almost translucent and Mama's tanned one glow. They looked so beautiful in this light – almost unreal, even. I hid my smile as Mother lowered her head and kissed Mama on the side of her mouth. Mama let out a contented sigh which, somehow, made my heart swell.

The only sound in the study was the fire cracking and the serenity lulled me deeper into sleep. Soon, my eyes began to droop close.

I wasn't aware of what made me awake again, but when I cracked my eyes open I saw that they already changed positions. Mama's back was fully on the sofa now. Mother was on top of her; her hand held Mama's left arm loosely in her grip and she was kissing the inner part of the arm. I closed my eyes again to sleep, not wanting to interrupt.

Before I fell asleep, though, I heard Mother's low voice whisper – there was urgency in her tone that even as a child I became alert. "I can make it disappear, Hermione," she said referring to something, "I can erase it."

"Bella," Mama sighed, "we've talked about this before. I don't want you to make it disappear."

"I still don't understand you," came the reply.

I risked a look and saw that by then Mama had had Mother's face cupped between her hands. "I told you before that it's a part of me; something that only serves as an endearment, like an old friend. Whatever it is you think, Bella, this doesn't hurt me the way it did – not anymore; not after everything that we've been through."

Mother shied away from the touch; her brow knitted in a tight knot between the bridges of her nose as if she was in great pain. "It wasn't an act of love and you know it perfectly. For Merlin's sake, Hermione, I meant the word to hurt you! I carved it in your arm to derogate you, to remind you of your place! I branded you – marked you!"

"And that you did, Bellatrix – you reminded me of my place; it's here, beside you. You branded me – marked me as your own and there is nothing I want to change about it!" Mama's voice was so calm that I was assured that they weren't having an argument.

"I beg to differ."

Mama shifted, propping her elbow to help her sit. "Why? Why do you insist on erasing it? Why is it such a big deal for you whether it stays or not? Darling, even if you remove it physically, it won't change the fact that it was there in the first place. Bella, that word doesn't define me."

"But it defines me!" Mother growls, trying her best to keep her voice low as not to wake me (well, I wasn't asleep but they didn't have to know that). "It defines who I was and it was a painful reminder of what kind of a monster I was before – it hurts! Every time I see it, all that I can see is how lost I was and how close I was to losing you to my own hands; I did that and I am ashamed of it and I'm hurt!"

The confession left Mama's mouth agape. There it was, her other half baring her soul for the world to see – for Mama to see. I watched as Mother hugged herself on the sofa and began to rock back and forth, lost to her own thoughts.

Mama reached out to her, placing her hand on Mother's chin and push upwards gently. "Bella," she called out tenderly, "Bella, sweetheart, please look at me."

Dark curls moved upwards as Mother lifted up her face. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears and I felt my heart being squeezed so tightly by an invisible hand when a lone tear broke free and rolled down Mother's pale cheek.

She was pulled into Mama's arms and Mama murmured something that I didn't quite catch. I managed to make the parts that she was sorry for not heeding Mother's feeling, for being so ignorant that she failed to see Mother's pain.

"I can't let you erase it, Bella. Like I always say to you; it's a part of me, and in some way it's a part of you too – a part of us and the life we have before."

Mother shook her head. "I still don't understand," she replies weakly.

"And I'm not going to force you to understand it now. I made my peace with it, and I'm going to do whatever it takes – no matter how long it takes – to help you make peace with it. Please, sweetie?"

I didn't remember falling asleep but the next thing I knew, I was in my parents' bed the next morning with them still asleep on my either sides. There were smiles on their faces. And when Mama shifted in her sleep, I saw it – the faint silver scar on her left arm, almost illegible. It was something that I was used to see until then but never bothered to think about. There in the sunlight, written in a childish handwriting on my Mama's arm was a word single word: Mudblood.

...

"Words don't define you, Druella," Mother's even voice pulls me out of my train of thoughts.

"Sometimes they do," I counter stubbornly.

"They only do when you let them define you. Words don't hurt me anymore – at least words that don't come from you or Hermione."

"He called us Mudblood," I protest, relentless.

"But do you feel like one?" I didn't answer. She releases her hold on me so that she can take a better look at my face. Mother locks her gaze to mine. "Tell me, Dru, tell me who you are. Tell me who I am – who we all are."

"I'm a Black," I reply in a heartbeat. There's no doubt in that. "I'm a Black and so are you and Mama."

"There," she says, smiling in satisfaction. "As long as you know who you are, little raven, it's all that matters. Don't let others define you; define yourself. Do you understand me, Dru?"

"Yes, Mother," I respond.

She nods even though I know she knows that I don't fully understand what she is trying to convey. I'm still only a child, I suppose. She loosens her grip on me and we stand up. "Is there anything else you want to say, child?"

I worry my bottom lip before blurting out, "Am I getting my House points back?"

Mother throws her head back and laughs at my question. "Keep dreaming, Miss Black, keep dreaming," she teases. Then she sobers up. "As much as I want to protect you from the world, Druella, I can't be there for you forever. I meant what I said before – that you should give thanks when thanks is due. You didn't thank Scorpius, did you? And you did yell at me, your teacher. I can't tolerate that kind of behaviour – not from my student, especially not from my daughter. Just consider it a hard lesson, will you?

I nod reluctantly, knowing that she is not going to change her mind.

She takes a piece of parchment and scribbles something in it before giving it to me. "Here," she says in a serious Professor Black's voice, "give this to your teacher. Just tell them you got a detention from me. Now leave."

I take the parchment and walk to the door. When I have my hand on the handle, I turn around for the last time. "Mother," I begin. She waits. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. It won't happen again." With that I pull the door open and run to my next class without giving her a chance to respond.

Being a Ravenclaw is a privilege – here I learn that blood doesn't matter because it takes more than just crimson liquid running through my veins to define me. And being a Black is an honour – here I learn to know and be proud of who I am.


	3. Between Good Intention and Stubborness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was never a time in the past in which Bellatrix Black actually wanted to give her family a birthday present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhat the first instalment of two parts. The next chapter isn't the second part, though.

I am almost toppled off my bed when a loud bang from downstairs wakes me up. The explosion is followed by an equally loud yell and I jump out of bed, struggling with the duvet that's tangled around my calves before I'm able to free myself in the end. I wait for a second before opening my door because I'm always warned to stay put in my room if something bad happens. My mothers have put enchantments that will prevent bad people from entering my room – not that it ever happens – and whatever happens, I'll be safe inside. But there is no other noise after the initial one, so I decide that I've nothing to worry about.

The house is silent, save from some faint noise that is far from the sound of fighting, and a whiff of something burning hits my nostrils as soon as I step outside my room. There's no one in sight (but of course, there are only me and Mother at home because Mama is at Hogwarts at the moment). I run across the hall, stopping only to check Mother's room – it's empty – before dashing downstairs.

Just as my feet reach the bottom of the stairs I notice that there is black smoke coming out of our dining hall. When I come closer, I hear Mother's voice and another female's from behind the semi closed door. I frown; Mama can't be home now – it's not even holiday and it's Mother's turn to stay home with me. I take a peek and see that Mother is cussing and the other woman is laughing. I push the door open.

There, in the middle of our dining hall, stand my very angry-looking Mother and my amused Aunt Andromeda. Next to them on the table is something that looks like a burnt plate, smoke still comes out of it. I wrinkle my nose as the smell is really bad. The two women spin around and when they see me, Mother's swearing dies instantly on her lips (she never swears in front of me, she doesn't even say 'bloody' or 'Merlin's beard' when I'm around!).

"Hi, Dru!" Aunt Andy beams at me merrily.

"Morning Aunt Andy," I greet her properly, walking farther into the room. "Good morning, Mother."

Mother's eyebrows knit into a burrow in the middle of her forehead. "Did we wake you up?" she questions. I shake my head no. From the look of it, she is having a real bad mood. I roll my eyes mentally – where's Mama when we need her?

"What happened?" I ask the both of them. Pointing at the table, I say, "What is that?"

For some reasons, my query amuses Aunt Andy a lot for she laughs out loudly without a warning. Mother throws her a dangerous scowl and begins muttering something of what I assume to be the sweariest swear words under her breath but it only makes her younger sister laughs harder, so hard so that she holds her stomach with both hands.

Confused of what seems to be the joke, I move closer to the table and climb on a chair. I lean in on the dark mahogany table, resting both elbows on the cool wooden surface to support my upper body, to take a closer look at the object in question. There, on the table, lies what seems to be (or used to be) our silverware with something that resembles a remnant of a cake dough – but I can't really tell since it's so black that in first glance I thought it to be a lump of molten coal.

I tilt my head up. "Mother," I wonder, looking at her with puzzlement, "what happened to the cake? Did you hex it?"

By now Aunt Andy has doubled up in laughter that she has to support herself on the back of a chair to keep her from falling down; tears falling from her eyes to her very flushed cheeks and she is shaking so hard I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself.

"Shut up, Dromeda!" Mother snaps darkly, glaring at me for asking her the question. Her sister covers her mouth with her hand immediately, tries to stifle her laughter as Mother flicks her wand to the plate. It vanishes into thin air in a blink.

"Mom?" I call her out again to make her answer me. I know she hates it when I call her 'Mom' instead of 'Mother', so I hope to get her attention by calling her that.

"What, Druella? No, what were you thinking? Of course I didn't hex the cake – are you out of your mind, goose?" she grumbles impatiently. Before I can ask more about the burnt plate, I feel her dark eyes fall on my clothes. "Why are you still in your pyjama? You don't expect to break your fast wearing only that, do you, now? Go back to your room this instant and get dressed, young lady," she orders before storming out of the room, closing the door behind her with a bit more force than necessary although she doesn't slam it completely.

Any attempt of protests telling her that she generally doesn't mind me having breakfast in pyjamas is going to be futile while she's in this mood so I mumble my reply to thin air and scurry out of the dining hall to change without even giving my aunt a second glance. I'm only a couple of steps away from the dining hall when I hear Aunt Andy calling me. She offers to help me get dressed. I'm ten years old this year and I'm old enough to dress myself, but I suppose she's just making an excuse to avoid angering Mother more, therefore I let her come along. Besides, I'm dying to know about what happened to the poor cake dough.

I let Aunt Andy hold my hand and we walk to my room. My Aunt Andy looks a lot like Mother in appearance, which also means that she looks a lot like me. But for her lighter hair that almost matches my own if hers were darker, Mother and Aunt Andy would look like twins. They are around the same height and they have matching dark eyes although hers aren't as big as Mother's. She is actually about three years younger than my mother, but somehow she has more grey hair than her older sister and the lines on her face are more prominent. I remember asking Mother about this once and she told me that Aunt Andy is way too serious, always thinks of things complicatedly, and that she has to bring up Nephew Teddy Lupin – who is totally hilarious to be around with but was apparently a bit of a handful as a boy. Mother also mentioned something about Aunt Andy not having Mama and me to keep her young.

Once we get into my room, I open the wardrobe with my mind – a trick that Mother taught me when I was five just after she and Mama found out that I can use magic – and rummage into it to find something to wear. Aunt Andy sits on the already made bed (I have to remember to thank Toffee, our house-elf, later. Mama will be displeased if I don't) and watches me as I change into a light dress.

"Nice choice," she compliments in passing and I smile my thanks. "You know, my daughter Dora didn't like wearing dresses as a little girl. She always preferred slacks better. Girls are pretty in dresses," she continues.

"Mama says girls are pretty in anything," I respond without really looking at her as I'm busy with the ribbon on my dress, "I just chose this because it's Mother's favourite and I think I need to be on her good side today."

She chuckles at my explanation. "Smart girl. And yes, Hermione is right – girls are pretty in anything," she agrees. Aunt Andy is fond of my Mama. They always spend time talking with each other when they meet.

After I'm done dressing, I climb up the bed and sit next to her. "So what happened to the cake?" I ask her. I think I've waited enough to deserve knowing.

Upon hearing my question, Aunt Andy laughs again. "Oh that," she manages to let out in between laughter, "Well, if you remember, sweetie, today is your Mama's birthday."

Oh. Right. I almost forget – but hey, when you are woken up by the sound of explosion, remembering someone's birthday is the least of your concern! At least I have a justifiable excuse. "Yes, so?"

She looks me in the eyes. "Promise me you are not going to tell your Mother I tell you this," she demands. I nod quickly. "Bella is going to kill me. Anyway, my stubborn sister wants to surprise Hermione by baking a birthday cake from scratch as a present. She owled me last night asking me to come and tutor her on how to bake because apparently buying a recipe book is beneath Bellatrix Black – please don't grow up to be so stubborn as your Mother, Dru darling – believe me, it's better to lean to your Granger blood on this," Aunt Andy pauses to catch her breath.

"She was doing really fine for a beginner and I have to admit that I was quite astonished to see her working on the dough as if she'd been spending her whole life in the kitchen. And then it was time for baking. Here was when everything went awry – your obstinate mother refused to use Muggle oven to bake her cake. She didn't even want to use wizard oven – she said the cake wouldn't have been hers if she had used any equipment. She insisted using magic to do it. For a second there I thought she'd have enough sense to send the dough to the elves to bake but, no. She decided to use her wand." My aunt shakes her head in disbelief. "Guess what spell she used? 'Incendio'. Of all fire-making spells in the world she had to choose that one to bake a cake! And the best part is that she practically ruined one of her best silverware with her obstinacy!"

I can't help but laughing when she finishes retelling me what happened. On one hand, I understand Mother's unfamiliarity with Muggle equipment and her unwillingness to try. On the other hand, though, I just can't grasp how she is too headstrong for her own good – had she listened for once to Aunt Andy, this wouldn't have happened.

"Poor Mother," I remark.

"Why, poor cake," Aunt Andy replies, rolling her eyes as she speaks. She falls quiet for a moment then adds dreamily, "Her intention is noble, I've to confess. Oh, how much she must love your mother. I've never seen people still so in love with each other after almost twenty years together! Hermione makes Bella happy. I had never seen her so happy before she got into a relationship with her. We thought it was only a fling, me and Cissy. We are pretty realistic and we used to wonder what Bella had to offer to Hermione – but now I'm sure it's bound to last."

It seems that Aunt Andy has completely forgotten about my presence. She stares absent-mindedly at the wall, shaking her head and chuckling a little before she continues, "A birthday present–.. Bella never bothers giving me, Cissy, or anyone else presents; not even when we were little children. I've lived sixty-four years and I've received not a single birthday wish from her, let alone a present. She's changed so much – Hermione changes her; and you too, Dru. Having you has changed her life a lot, more than you'd ever know and more than she'd ever admit."

I never heard Aunt Andy speak like this about my mothers before. Yes, she often says that her sister is so in love with Mama and vice versa, but that's about it. It makes me wonder what kind of person Mother was before I was born – before she met Mama. I wonder how they'd first met; what circumstances made them fall for each other, for it doesn't take a genius to see that Mother is a lot older than Mama (although I'm just too ignorant to care about how many years gap there are between them).

One day I will ask them those questions. One day I will. But not now. Now I have an awfully hungry belly to fill.

"What's for breakfast?" I ask, changing the topic.

Aunt Andy blinks, as if she was just woken up from a trance. She glances down at me and grimaces at the sound of my belly rumbling. She smiles, a smile that reminds me a lot of Mother's. "Not burnt cake, that's for sure," she replies, taking my hand to lead me back to the dining hall.


	4. Summer Lovin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is the season of love, or so they say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: AJ is a free woman who plays with other people's food – what can I say? It's tempting ;)
> 
> A/N: this chapter is a completely different story from the previous one. The next instalment of the previous chapter will be posted after this one. 
> 
> Again, this chapter is un-betaed. My brain is too proud to admit that I make mistakes, but my heart knows that I do lots and lots of grammatical mistakes and such (and I listen to my heart more than my brain). Therefore I will be forever obliged if you care enough to point out my mistakes.
> 
> Well then, sit properly – this is going to be a bumpy ride. Enjoy.

It is unseasonably cool for a summer evening, today is; the temperature is low enough that Mother and I decide to find comfort in her room, letting the blazing fire radiate warmth into our cool skins while the two of us lounge on the four-poster bed.

We are waiting for Mama to come home from work. Somehow both my mothers think it necessary to find a side job during summer holiday, which I honestly find strange since we are more than affluent. They did tell me once that money is not what they are after – and I believe them even though I still don't understand. Both of them work for the Ministry every summer. Mother's work starts in the morning – she works with people called the Unspeakables and she never talks about what she does – but she spends her time mostly at home. Mama, on the other hand, spends her working time outside the house; she goes to work shortly after lunch and doesn't return until dinnertime. If I'm not mistaken, I think her work has something to do with magical creatures.

Anyway, it's nearing dinnertime now but there's no sign of Mama. Mother has gotten bored after the fourth time she beat me in chess so she decided that we should just stop. I sense that she is jittery this evening despite trying to hide it behind a mask of indifference and I wonder if she is waiting for something.

Still wearing her black dressing gown and her leather boots, Mother lies in bed, propping herself up on a pile of pillows with her legs tucked underneath her thighs. I'm sitting in front of her on the bed, my back leaning flush on her torso – the seams of her corset dig uncomfortably into my skin but I try to relax. I have my head resting on her chest, where I can hear her heart beating steadily against her ribcage and feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Breathing in, I am enveloped by her scent, a unique mixture of spices and something that strangely reminds me of Mama. I smile and snuggle closer to her.

I know that I'm not supposed to compare Mother and Mama – but really, they are so different in many things that I can't resist. Take Mama for instance; she really loves talking. When I spend my time with her there is no doubt that half of it will be filled with small talks because we practically bring anything that comes into our mind into a discussion. If the topic is too heavy, she never downrightly tells me that I'm too young to understand – Mama always tries to explain it to me in a simpler way while not forcing me to understand either.

Mother is not much of a talker. She is more of an action person. Don't get me wrong; it doesn't mean that we don't talk or anything – we do. What I'm saying is that she doesn't talk as much as Mama does (which is a shame because I love her voice, too). Mother told me once that her mouth used to be quicker than her brain and that she did talk a lot and get into a lot of trouble with her mouth back when she was younger; I find it difficult to believe considering that she seems to count how many words come out of her mouth now. Sometimes I wish I was born earlier, when she was younger, so I could see the talkative version of her. (However, when I mentioned this to her she looked less than thrilled).

Like I said before, Mother is a little bit out of herself tonight. After her unsuccessful attempt to teach me how to do non verbal magic – I'm only twelve, give me a break, she decides that it's time for story.

I love it when she regales me with her tales. I never know whether she makes her stories up as she speaks or whether they are real tales written somewhere in a book. But that isn't important. I give her my full attention, listening to every single word that pours out from her mouth and memorise them by heart. I'm being spoilt by both the story and the sound of her velvety voice in my ears. Her hand is never idle when she tells her stories. Like now, she is busy flicking her crooked wand from which tip erupts various sparkling shapes – the shapes move, gliding slowly in the air and leaving trails of silvery glitters behind them before they vanish to give way to other new shapes. I can't decide which enthrals me more – the story or the magical illustration she draws for me.

Halfway through the story of Quentin the Cursed, we heard a soft click of the door handle being turned. Mother stops her movement when a moment later the wooden frame swings open and Mama steps into the room in her working robe. I can sense her body tenses under me, but I'm too happy to see my other mother to give it a second thought.

"Mama!" I beam. I wriggle out of Mother's arms and leap from the bed to give Mama a big hug. She grins happily when I wrap my arms around her frame; her robe feels cold against my skin.

"Hey, sweetie," she greets me. "Mmmm... you smell really nice," she adds, leaning down to kiss the top of my head, "How was your day?"

"It was alright, but I miss you," I answer truthfully.

She smiles and tightens her arms around me for a second before letting go. Then she looks up and sweeps the room with her brown eyes. The gaze stops at the bed, where Mother is still sprawling carelessly. Her soft brown eyes darken and gleam when they meet Mother's. "Hello there, stranger," Mama speaks in a husky voice.

There is a twitch on the corners of Mother's mouth as she gets up from the bed very slowly. She takes her time, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her dress, before walking towards us in her usual calmness – so catlike. There's something in Mother's expression as she approaches that I can't really put my fingers on – what is it? Is it adoration? Love? Or something else – something that my young brain is just unable to fathom? The air feels to shift, hanging heavily around us for some reasons I can't comprehend. I watch as Mother walks so gracefully with a sway of her hips. She halts a couple of steps away from us, lifts her chin with a proud expression, and takes Mama's hand in hers.

"Come, pet," she invites softly as she draws her wife close. Mama complies and I see a hint of pink on her cheeks. Mother pulls her closer that their fronts flush against each other. Her lips hover just over Mama's as she begins, "Why, my pet is blushing like a bride." Mother glances at me and winks; I grin in return. Mama turns really red now as Mother continues teasing, "Whatever is the matter, pet? Don't you miss me? I've been waiting for you to come home."

"Bella..."

Mama's words are cut off for Mother doesn't give her the chance to finish. She closes the distance between them and captures Mama's pink lips with her own ruby red's. I'm close enough to hear Mama's soft gasp but it seems that Mother doesn't care at all.

It is a tender kiss – not a sloppy teenager's kiss that I sometimes see between the older kids in Hogwarts but a sweet, loving one that makes your heart swells when you see it.

Unlike other children who abhor any displays of affection that their parents show to each other (like the Potters' children: James always goes 'eww' and 'ugh' whenever he sees Uncle Harry kisses Aunt Ginny), I actually cherish them. Mother is not a touchy-feely person in front of others so I find it heart-warming to see how she shows her love for Mama so freely and vice versa. I guess I'm one of those lucky children whose parents love each other so much.

But still, I have my limits. It's one thing to see your parents exchange hugs and chaste kisses; it's another to see them actually snogging each other like there's no tomorrow. The two are kissing deeply now – Mother is cupping Mama's face with her hands and Mama's hand is tangled in Mother's dark curls. Obviously, they have forgotten that they have audience – one very underage audience who also happens to be their only daughter.

When Mama's hand slides to the side of Mother's left breast, I've had more than enough. I clear my throat, face red as a ripe tomato, announcing my presence, "Ahem – Madame and Mrs. Black, in case you forget, I'm still here."

The kiss breaks. Mama throws a fleeting look at me and giggles. "Oops!" she says.

"Then I suggest you do something about it, raven. Make your little wings useful and fly out of here," replies the dark woman breathlessly. Her lips are still on Mama's and she doesn't even look at me as she speaks.

Modesty – my mothers certainly don't have it; they may not even know what the word means. I roll my eyes at them but then obligingly step out of the room. The last thing I see before closing the door behind me is Mother pulling her wife to the bed, urging the taller woman to sit on her lap – they never break the kiss.

Oh well, I suppose it means that I'm going to have to dine alone tonight. Again. For the eighth times since we returned from Hogwarts. By the way, did I mention that today is the eighth day since the holiday started?

...

Later that night when I'm getting ready for bed, I hear a knock on my door. I tell them to come in and grin when I see Mama on the doorway. She is in her sleeping robe now, her skin glowing in the soft light from the fireplace.

"Where's Mother?" I query wonderingly because she never misses saying goodnight to me when she's home.

I think I see Mama blush at the question but I shrug it off – must be the light. "Asleep," she tells me, climbing my bed and lying next to me.

I lean close to her and a whiff of familiar scents fills my nostrils – it's Mama's vanilla and honey mixed with something that I recognise as Mother's own; I find it cute that their scents are on each other's skins. Oddly enough, the mixture creates a new scent that I always associate with serenity. "She isn't coming to say goodnight?"

"Oh, she was planning to, but she fell asleep and I don't have the heart to wake her up," Mama replies, "Can you do without her or do I have to wake her up?"

"No, let her sleep."

She nods, her brown hair bobs as she does so and it tickles me forehead. "Now, Dru, tell me – what did you do today?" she requests. See? Mama always wants to talk.

"Not much, really," I begin. My hand reaches out and fiddles with the sash of her robe. "I read half of the Second Year's Potion book I found in the study – I need to get my own, Mama, whoever wrote the side notes on that book was obviously demented; there are blotches of ink everywhere. Then after tea Mother taught me the proper way to make a spell to jinx others." I see Mama begin to speak so I cut her off before she can scold me, "Mother forbids me against using it without her permission; she says I've to let either you or her know if I create any spells. I see no points in that, honestly; why would she teach me something and then warns me against using the knowledge?"

Mama strokes my hair affectionately. "Because she loves you, Dru. Your mother and I always want you to know what we know – be able to do what we can do, but as your mothers we are also very selfish. We don't want you to get hurt in the process of learning. Knowledge is power, darling, it is a crucial thing to do something correctly. But it's not everything that is important – you also need to be mature enough, thoughtful enough to fully understand the consequences of your actions. You have to be able to put all the possible risks into the equation."

"I don't understand," I state openly.

"I don't expect you to – not immediately. But you will; I promise you that when you are older and more mature, you will understand what I mean," Mama answers, "Promise me you won't do anything you don't understand?" She smiles as I bob my head as a promise. "That's my little girl."

"She beat me on chess. Four times in a row," I change the subject, continuing my report, "She practically stripped me off my dignity." Mama chuckles at this. "Then she told me a story about Quentin the Cursed – and hey! She hasn't finished the story. Why don't you continue it for her?"

"Quentin the Cursed?" My mother frowns. "I've never heard of it," she admits, "Must be one of the older stories, I suppose – I'm not familiar with many of older Wizarding tales. Anyway, I thought you decided that you're too old for tales."

I shrug. "I like stories when Mother tells them," I admit; it is half the truth because I like listening to her voice better than the content of the stories themselves – not that the stories aren't interesting.

Mama feigns a hurt look. "Ouch! Seems that you favour her more than you favour me there, young lady."

"I don't," I quickly say in case she really means what she said. "I love you and her equally; you know that."

She tweaks my nose. "I'm just joking, kitten. Why do you always take things seriously – you really are Bella's daughter."

"I thought I was your daughter, too," I reply innocently.

"You very much are, darling."

I yawn. It's pretty late and I am very tired. But then something crosses my mind. Something that I've been wanting to ask for some time but keeps forgetting to do so. "Mama," I call out, waiting for her to look at me in the eyes. "I always wonder... have you always been in love with Mother?"

There's a moment of silence between us and I see something flash in the brown orbs of hers; something that I rarely see in her eyes but somehow the look sends a twinge of sadness to my heart. Suddenly I wish I didn't ask. Mama rubs her left forearm subconsciously and at that moment I want nothing more than to be able to take back my words.

"It's alright if you don't want to answer me, Mama. I'm sorry I make you sad," I try to amend myself.

"No, darling, it's alright." She shakes her head and smiles warmly. "I just didn't expect that question is all. There's no harm in asking – so don't stop asking me, or your Mother for that matter, questions just because you think that it will make either of us uncomfortable."

Mama shifts a little; she drapes her arm across my middle and pulls me closer. "Everything has a beginning, Druella – so does the story of your mother and me," she begins after another moment of silence, "To answer your question: no, I haven't always been in love with Bella. I think–.. I believe I can say that once, a lifetime ago, the last thing I wanted was to have anything to do with her."

"Why?"

"Because she was Bellatrix Black," she replies dreamily.

I don't get it. "She's still Bellatrix Black now," I point out matter-of-factly, "And you are now a Black, too."

"Yes, but she is not the person she used to be."

"What was she like then?"

I don't get my reply. "It's complicated," Mama continues, "Simply put, we had such a rocky start. And back then, even I wasn't the person that I am now."

"Then what happened?" I ask, refraining myself from asking what she was like before she fell in love with Mother.

"Oh, love happened, child," Mama says, laughing a little, "I guess somewhere along the way, I realised that Bellatrix Black was more than the things people associated her with; more than the image she so desperately wanted people to see. It's funny if I think back about it – that I still don't know how it first started. I don't know who changed first: was it me or her? All I know is that suddenly I realised that I have fallen in love with Bellatrix Black." She smiles at me. "It was difficult to accept that at first, honestly – for who would have thought? But once I fell, darling, I fell so hard and there was no turning back," she admits.

I watch as Mama's expression softens with the memory. Her answer is vague for she most probably thinks that I am not old enough to hear the full version of it, but somehow I can feel a genuine emotion behind it.

"And you know what, Druella? Even now I'm still falling. Every day, every time I see your mother I feel myself fall in love over and over again without a chance of getting up. But I won't have it otherwise – I don't want to get up; falling for Bella was – and still is – one of the best things that ever happened to me."

As I'm listening to her, I feel my eyes grow heavier. It's past my bedtime already and I am very sleepy. I don't want to sleep yet, though. I want her to tell me more of her and Mother. It's like listening to a fairy tale, but a tale that I know has a real happy ending.

Alas, I think my effort to suppress another yawn is futile as she suddenly stops talking. "You're half asleep," she remarks.

"I'm not," I counter.

"Yeah, right." Mama pulls the blanket and tucks it securely under my chin. "I'd like you to sleep anyway, child. We're having a picnic with your Aunt Andy and the Malfoys, remember? You need your rest." She kisses my forehead and climbs out of the bed. "Good night, Druella," she whispers.

"Mama," I call out to her again when she starts to leave. She turns around and watches me, waiting. "I'm glad you fell in love with Mother," I tell her.

"Yeah," she whispers, "So am I."

Mama has only walked a couple of steps when I close my eyes. I don't even hear her close the door for I'm already deep in slumber. That night, I dream about many colourful things and about two women who looked so much like my mothers falling in love.


	5. The Ball

When one lives in Castle Black with Bellatrix Black as company, one becomes used to constant surprises. There is no telling of what is going on in my Mother's head – she changes her mind ever so often that it isn't uncommon to hear her say something and later see her do its exact opposite.

Take, for instance, her opinion about parties. Whenever somebody mentions that word in front of her, Mother's face will contort into a scowl that gives an impression of someone eating a very sour lemon or smelling something disgusting. She says that parties are a waste of time and money (although she makes sure I understand that the latter is never of our concern – we are the Blacks, for crying out loud! Money is never the problem!). Her dislike for parties is widely known among relatives – how not? She avoids social gatherings like a plague, always using my being alone at home as an excuse.

I once argued that parties are exciting; at least that's what I think since I really love seeing people in their fancy dresses, talking and laughing and dancing in their best moods – and not to mention the various delectable foods and drinks to try. Parties are heavenly in my book. But of course Mother always has to have the last word. She tells me that everything is a facade; people never actually have fun at parties, as the ladies are mostly too busy envying other women's dresses and accessories while the men are jealous of each other's achievements. Honestly, Mother can be a heavy rain on a parade when she wants to.

Anyway, since it's clear as crystal that she hates parties, it actually surprised both me and Mama when she announced that she was throwing Mama a birthday party while we were having our last breakfast together before Mama left for Hogwarts for the new school year.

...

" _Excuse me?" Mama sounded genuinely surprised – and she looked so; her fork stopped mid-way to her mouth._

_Mother raised an eyebrow and clicked her tongue impatiently. "I said," she repeated in a sour tone as if saying it again was a real physical pain, "we're having a ball for your birthday this year."_

" _A birthday party?" I interjected excitedly, for it had been quite a long time since we last had a ball in Castle Black aside from several kids' play-dates, "Yay!"_

" _Birthday_ ball _, Druella," the dark witch corrected me – as if there was a difference! "Don't speak with your mouth full."_

_I rolled my eyes at her. Telling me to behave – Mother always did that when she was uncomfortable. And for the record, no, I didn't have anything in my mouth then; I had finished my breakfast._

" _Bella," Mama's voice was so soft when she called out her wife's name. Trying to draw the other woman's attention back to her, she reached out her hand and put it on top of Mother's, which was resting idly on the table. "Sweetheart, that is very sweet of you to think about throwing me a party."_

" _I'm not thinking it – I'm doing it," she grumbled, "And I think I hear a 'but' somewhere along the line."_

_Mama glanced at me very quickly before her brown eyes went back to fix on the dark woman. "I'm going to be at Hogwarts then, darling – I can't just leave."_

" _But you're always home for your birthday, Mom!" I couldn't help but protest, earning a glare from two pairs of eyes – Mama's because I wasn't on her side this time, and Mother's because I called her wife 'Mom' instead of the proper 'Mama'. I grinned apologetically at Mother – I was stuck with her for the rest of this year and I wanted to be on her good side._

" _That I am – but only for a couple of hours for dinner," Mama explained patiently, to both of us now. "A ball is a different matter. It will take hours, if not all night, and who is going to prepare for everything and then clean up afterwards? I can't take a day off – especially because I'm covering for you, too, Bella."_

" _We have elves."_

_The younger woman shook her head. "It still won't be wise. There are still too many things to do, things that we can't leave to the elves – and I'm not allowing you to overwork the elves!"_

_There was something flashing in Mother's eyes and I immediately thought_ uh-oh _and was going to excuse myself; I didn't want to be caught in the middle of an argument. Alas, I wasn't quick enough._

" _Overworking the elves?!" Mother's voice was high, "What are you implying? Are you saying that I, Bellatrix Black, am incapable of preparing a ball without any help? Excuse me, but I am a Black – I know how to prepare one on very short notice, let alone having two and a half weeks!"_

" _That was not what I was saying, Bellatrix – don't you put words in my mouth," Mama warned her wife. I never liked it when she said Mother's full name with that kind of tone – it always meant trouble. "What I was trying to say before you drew your own conclusions is that it will be inconvenient to have a party when everyone is clearly very busy." She was sitting in an erect position and was very tense._

_They were glaring at each other in silence for some time neither one blinked. My skin tingled and I sensed magic in the air – great! They were using magic to argue; just what I needed. As soon as it began, though, it was over. The tingling sensation was gone and I saw the two women blink._

" _There will be a ball whether you like it or not, Hermione. Period," said Mother firmly._

" _It's my birthday! I don't want a ball!"_

" _It's a gift! I'm doing this for you!"_

" _Did it never occur to you that I might not want a ball for my birthday, Bellatrix?"_

_Mother stood up slowly; there was this air of arrogance and victory around her when she spoke, "Probably; but the invitations have been sent so there is nothing you can do to change it, Hermione Black – you are having a birthday ball." With that, she left the dining room, leaving a very upset Mama and a very uncomfortable me._

_Brown eyes met mine for a second before she decided that I wasn't my Mother's accomplice and whispered, "She doesn't even like parties!"_

...

Afterwards, there had been several close calls of Mother's cancelling the ball, but she always changed her mind at the very last minute because she'd rather endure the stupid ball than face Hermione's smug I-knew-it look – her words, not mine. And so here we are, eighteen days later, celebrating Mama's birthday with at least a hundred other people at our home.

The castle has been beautifully decorated and I can hardly recognise our ballroom because Mother has, by herself without any help from an elf, completely changed the look of it. The room that is usually dominated by dark colour is now very bright and merry – Mother changed the colour of the walls into soft pastel, what once used to be navy blue curtains are now very light beige with a golden hem, and the dark marble floor is now a shiny champagne colour. And on top of all that, Mother apparently enchanted the ceiling so that from it falls millions of sparkling tiny gold and silver stars, which disappear halfway to the ground. When Bellatrix Black decides to show off, she goes all the way.

Everyone is charmed by the transformation of the ballroom; the older guests who obviously had been invited to many Black balls back when my dear grandparents were alive are heard complimenting my parents for what they did to the ballroom, commenting that the old one was rather dark for a ballroom. Mama gracefully accepts the compliment but Mother flatly says that she's transforming it back to its old state after the ball is over, which, of course, makes the guests nervous.

For the first half an hour of the ball, I am genuinely excited to see people coming in their beautiful and colourful dresses – even some of the wizards are wearing lighter colours instead of the usual dark robes. Some of the witches are really beautiful and I can't help but look at them longer than I look at others, but in the end, even though I may be biased, I think my mothers are the most beautiful of them all.

Tonight Mama is wearing very close-fitting, fuchsia-coloured sleeveless dress, the hem of which reaches her knees. The dress is adorned with sequins, and whenever she moves, they reflect the candlelight and glitter softly. Mama pulls her hair up in a loose bun, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. As she doesn't like many accessories, the birthday lady is only wearing a simple white gold necklace around her neck, along with a matching bracelet.

Mother's dress matches her name, as usual. The dark velvety material hugs her frame snugly, enhancing the curves of her body. It's amazing how a woman of her age still looks very charming in the kind of dress which obviously shows more skin than it conceals. Mother's dress is sleeveless with a halter top that covers most of her front, but her back is pretty much bare as the back of the dress only covers from her buttocks down. And like I have mentioned before – when she shows off, she goes all the way. Even though her dress is so long that the hem grazes the floor, it has a long slit on one side that reaches her upper thigh. Mama nearly choked on her drink when Mother came downstairs just a couple of minutes before the guests arrived. I don't blame her, really, because Mother does look amazing tonight.

Now let's get back to the party. Our guests are standing in small groups of cliques and friends and they are talking animatedly with one another, glasses of drinks in one hand. Some couples are dancing merrily, seemingly unaware of others. It seems that everyone is enjoying themselves – well, almost everyone.

To be honest, I have never been to a ball before, let alone had one at my home. I frankly thought that it would be the experience of a lifetime – because I did enjoy the small parties at the Malfoys and the Potters. I was wrong. I never expected to see so many people in the castle, and even though there is plenty of space in the ballroom, I can't help but feel a little suffocated. More disappointingly, nobody brings their children with them – I don't know any of them, but who cares? – not even the Potters or the Weasleys even though their younger children are not at Hogwarts. The only company I have is Nephew Teddy Lupin, but after a while even he goes to entertain himself with people his age. Most of other guests ignore me after their initial polite acknowledgements of the little lady of the house, and those who do pay attention to me treat me like a baby. Besides, after more than an hour of looking up when talking to people, my neck has begun to hurt.

I decide to excuse myself from the party. I look for either of my mothers and find Mama in the middle of a group of people I don't know. She is listening attentively to some elderly wizard talking. When she catches my eyes, she winks at me and suddenly there's a soft voice speaking in my head, "I love you." She uses magic to communicate with me. I smile back and mouth the same words to her, but I decide not to bother her. Now, where is my Mother?

I find Mother standing alone outside on the balcony with her back to the ballroom. I guess I'm not the only one who doesn't enjoy the party. Carefully as not to startle her, I step out of the warmth of the ballroom to the cool night air on the balcony.

"What is it, kitten?" Mother speaks without turning around. She has this amazing knack for knowing that someone is behind her.

"Why are you out here, Mother?" I ask, as I walk to where she stands.

She wraps her hand around my shoulder and lets me lean on her side. "Why are  _you_  out here?" she questions back.

"I'm bored," I admit truthfully. "The party is boring."

An amused chuckle leaves Mother's lips. "I thought you love parties?"

"I changed my mind." We stay in silence before I ask her my next question, "When will the party be over, Mother? Can't you ask them all to leave?"

The dark witch looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "And here I am, thinking that I'm the eccentric one in the family," she deadpans. "Don't be silly, child – the party is over when it is over. And it's only been an hour."

Before I can open my mouth to speak another word, a voice interrupts our conversation. "What are you two doing here?" We both turn around and see Mama standing at the balcony door with a hand on her hip.

"Ah, the birthday girl," Mother says calmly; her eyes twinkle as she looks at her wife.

"The birthday girl who has been abandoned by both her wife and daughter," she adds, walking towards us. "I've been looking for you, my love." That is addressed to Mother, I believe, since she gently brushes a strand of hair on Mother's forehead and leans in to kiss her cheek. "Have I told you that you look delicious in that dress?"

The older woman only replies with a smile, but she snakes her free arm around Mama's waist so that the three of us are now standing side by side. "You're supposed to be at the party, darling; people will be looking for the birthday lady."

Mama rolls her eyes. "I've done my role as a good hostess, Bellatrix – something that I can't say about you," she chastises. The brunette then tilts her head and eyes me carefully. "And you, young lady, what are you doing out here in the cold?"

"She's bored," Mother answers for me.

"Nonsense; Druella loves parties," responds Mama.

"She's my daughter," the older witch remarks as if it explains anything.

"Oh, don't you dare play the 'she's my daughter' card. She's mine as much as she is yours, Madame Black!"

"And she happens to be standing right here in front of you two!" I say in annoyance for being referred to as a third person. The two adults exchange a look then burst out laughing. Great, they always do that – uniting against me. "I wish I had a twin," I mumble out loud.

The laughter subsides as Mama asks me, "Now where did that come from?"

I shrug. "You always side with Mother on everything. I don't have anyone to side with – if I had a twin, it would be two against two," I explain matter-of-factly.

"That twisted logic certainly doesn't come from me," Mother interjects casually, earning her a protest from Mama saying that there is not a single drop of absurdity in herself, that anything weird that comes out of my mouth must be coming from Mother's side of the family. We fall into another comfortable silence afterwards.

"Say, can we tell the guests to leave now?" I am actually surprised to hear the words come from Mama.

Mother seems surprised, too, for she turns her head at her wife in an instant with an astounded expression on her face. "What?"

The younger witch slowly cocks her head, her brown eyes lock with dark ones. "I want to be alone with my family," she says solemnly. When Mother gives her a shake of her head, silently saying that she doesn't understand, Mama sighs, "It's my birthday and I've been surrounded by people the whole day and evening; I miss being with you." She pauses for a second and breaks her eye-contact with Mother to gaze at my dark eyes. "I miss being with the two of you. Alone."

Hearing this, I reach out my arms and hold her tightly, pressing my body flush to her front. Mother follows suit and soon I am sandwiched between the two of them.

"Let's go, then," the dark woman whispers in a husky tone.

"Where to?" asks Mama, hopeful.

"Some place where there are only the three of us."

"The ball..?" There is hesitation in the brunette's voice.

Mother shrugs indifferently. "I said I'd throw it – I didn't say anything about staying until the end."

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," the Potions Mistress begins, "But right now I don't care. Let's go, Bella, before I change my mind."

...

We Apparate with a loud crack and the next second, we are no longer at Castle Black. I look around me and instantly recognise the place – we are in Black Manor in Luxembourg. It used to be called Lestrange Manor a long time ago, but some time before I was born Mother changed the name into Black Manor, which is better, in my opinion, because I don't recall having a relative named 'Lestrange' and it is rather peculiar to name it that.

Mother lights up the whole place with a light flick of her wrist. She is grinning and looks more relaxed than she has been the whole night. Leaving the party was obviously a great choice. "Who's hungry?" she poses. When she receives two eager yes-es from us, she calls out for one of our elves.

Spike, Mother's personal elf, shows up with a loud pop with enough food to feed an army. The old elf also delivers a personal message from Mistress Cissy that she is totally disappointed at both Mistress Bellatrix and Mistress Hermione and would they please return immediately before people start talking.

"She is still a Black by birth – let her host the party," says Mother firmly, waving a hand as a dismissal. The elf leaves us without delay, bowing before he disappears with another loud pop.

The food is delicious as always, even more so because we are not sitting properly at the table while eating it. Mama decides that she wants to eat in front of the fireplace so we bring our plates to the study and sit on the carpeted floor. When we're done, the food disappears – I suspect that Spike comes back to his mistress after delivering the message to Aunt Cissy – and we sprawl on the carpet in a very unladylike manner that would certainly make my dear youngest Aunt frown in disapproval.

I don't know how long we stay in peaceful silence before Mama states quietly, "I don't want to go back to Hogwarts tonight."

"Then don't," replies Mother as quietly.

"I have to," the other woman says regretfully.

"Not tonight – you don't." Mother lifts her hand and gently caresses her wife's cheek with a finger. "Don't leave us," she pleads, "Don't leave _me_."

"Oh, Bella..."

" _Please_?"

There is something in how Mother says the word that makes Mama's expression change. She cups Mother's face with her hands and pulls the older woman closer so that their faces are a breath apart from each other. "How can I ever say 'no' to you, love?"

"Even if I knew, I would never tell you," whispers Mother before closing the distance between them in a soft, slow kiss.

Clearly they think that I've already fallen asleep because they don't usually kiss like this when I'm around. I may be only ten, but I know that this is more than just a kiss between spouses and suddenly I feel out of place – I feel like a spy who is actually not entitled to see this. Right then, I feel my skin tingle. I frown at the magic that unexpectedly fills the air and decide that it's time to announce that I am not yet asleep. I clear my throat.

The kissing stops but the warm tingle on my skin doesn't leave until after a second later, when the two women turn their head to look at me. "You two need to get a room," I say, grinning.

"Later we will," Mother remarks, "but not before you do."

Mama rolls her eyes. "Bellatrix, she is a child!" she admonishes the other woman for speaking like that.

"Fine!" my Mother throws her hands in the air in a feign frustration, "You and Cissy are no fun to be with!"

I get up and brush the invisible dust from my new dress, which is now pretty wrinkled from lying on the floor. "I can take a hint, Mother," I grumble. I haven't even walked a step when the raven haired woman stops me.

"Where do you think you are going, Miss Black?"

I stop on my track, perplexed. "I thought you told me to go to bed."

"I didn't – not yet anyway. Come sit down, you grouchy child! We still haven't given your Mama my present," Mother commands, tugging at the hem of my dress till I sit on my haunches.

"Present?" Mama sounds more than surprised. "What present?"

Yes, what present? I wonder. She can't mean...

Mother doesn't leave us to wonder for too long, fortunately. She snaps her fingers and right in front of Mama appears a silver plate with a cake on it. There is nothing special about the cake – it's just a simple sponge cake that Aunt Andy usually makes me whenever I visit – nevertheless I can see tears pooling in Mama's brown eyes when Mother confesses shyly, "I baked it myself – without magic."

So  _that_  was what she had been doing the whole afternoon after the first burnt cake incident!

The younger woman lets out a strangled sob when she throws her arms around the smaller frame in front of her, kissing Mother's face, whispering "I love you" over and over again at the embarrassed older woman.

We don't eat the cake in the end – it's proven to be quite inedible for it is hard as stone (but it's the thought that counts, really) – but Mama is extremely touched by Mother's effort to make her birthday memorable that she immediately sends an owl to the Headmistress of Hogwarts to ask for the next day off.

The last question I hear before I leave the two women in the study is Mama asking Mother the reason why she was so persistent on having a ball even though she doesn't like them.

"I was only saying it – but of course you and your big mouth had to say something about overworking the elves so I decided to really do it, only to annoy you."

"You are crazy, Bellatrix Black," Mama declares, "But I love you nonetheless."


	6. Unwell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd be updating this story ever again--I was wrong. Well, anyway, this is something I found lying in my hard disk, so I figured I'd finish and upload it just in case anyone still wants to read it. 
> 
> This story takes place during Dru's second year at Hogwarts, which makes her around twelve years old. Pardon the language use and all mistakes, I haven't been writing a story from a child's perspective for so long that it may sound a bit awkward. Please let me know how I can improve it, and I will do my best to do so. 
> 
> So, for now, I'm going to be quiet and let you read. All grammatical mistakes are mine. This work is un-betaed.
> 
> Please see my end notes, because I have some questions for you guys. Thanks!

The moment sleep leaves me, I know that something isn’t right. My body sinks in the bed like a lump of coal and I feel so heavy—did someone put a boulder on me as a joke sometime during the night? I try cracking my eyes open but they simply refuse to cooperate. I’m still buried under my blanket, my pyjama clinging uncomfortably to my sweaty skin but I don’t feel hot at all. On the contrary, I’m shivering. Every muscle of my body aches and I can’t move; by now I’ve begun to think that somebody had to turn me into a blob of jelly while I was asleep last night.

Again, I force my eyes open—and immediately regret it as soon as the sunlight hits my eyes and practically blinds them. I snap my eyes shut in an instant, feeling the painful burn of tears gathering under the lids. Groaning hoarsely, I bury my head farther under the blanket.

“Druella Black! Wake up! How many times should I wake you up?” The shrilly voice of my roommate Jemima pierces my ears, followed by an unceremonious grabbing of my cover. I squeak when she takes my blanket away, groping blindly at the sheets without even opening my eyes. “Get up, Dru! It’s past seven already!”

“No, I don’t want to get up!” I whimper softly, “Leave me alone.”

“What’s the matter? Dru?” she asks, a hint of worry on her voice. “Are you ill?”

I’m far too tired to make a sarcastic response, so I just shake my head. It’s a marvel how I can manage to do that, considering how weak I feel. Then suddenly the bed dips, and the sudden movement makes my stomach turns. If I vomit on my bed, I’m so going to hex this girl into the future! Well, as soon as I feel better, that is. Jimmie’s hand is as cold as ice as she touches my forehead, and I yelp.

“You’re burning up!” she exclaims in surprise while I try to turn away from the touch. She jumps off the bed and covers me back with the blanket she just yanked away. “I’m going to get someone. You stay put, alright?”

Right, like I can go anywhere?

My other roommates linger in the room, I suppose. I don’t want to open my eyes because I’m having the worst headache ever, but I still can hear them talking to one another—even though I can’t really make out what they are saying. I don’t know how long it has been since Jimmie left, or whether I’ve stayed awake the whole time as the next thing I hear is a female voice speaking right beside my bed, telling my friends to go to the hall for breakfast.

“Miss Black,” the voice calls out softly but firmly, “Miss Black, can you open your eyes?”

The voice is so full of authority that I can’t help but comply. I force my eyes open, thankful that somebody has apparently been thoughtful enough to draw the curtain, and I look up to meet a pair of glossy brown eyes gazing down on me worriedly. Madam Pomfrey reaches out to feel my forehead with her wrinkly hand, and she frowns. Uh-oh, this must be serious. And yes, of course I know Madam Pomfrey is old and she has a lot of lines on her face, but honestly, I can tell the difference between wrinkles and a frown.

 “How do you feel?” she asks.

“Sick,” I manage to let out.

The old matron nods in sympathy. “Yes, Miss Black, you’re very ill. We’re going to take you to the infirmary,” she tells me. Then to someone behind her that I can’t see, she speaks, “Jacob dear, will you please help me to carry Miss Black?”

“Sure, Madam,” comes the reply. A large brown man comes closer to my bed and slips his hands between me and the bed. It’s Nurse Jacob Olson – Madam Pomfrey’s assistant. “Alright there, Black?”

My head is spinning when he lifts me up to his arms and I close my eyes to stop me from vomiting all over him. I suppose I must black out soon after that because I cannot remember the walk from Ravenclaw tower to the infirmary on the second floor.

* * *

 

When I finally come to, the first thing I notice about my surrounding is the smell. Even if I were blind, I’d know where I am just from the smell: Infirmary. From scale one to one hundred of the things that make me nauseous – infirmary is the top one. Nothing, I repeat, nothing beats the obnoxious stink of potions, herbs, and disinfectants mixed together in the air. I gag at the smell. My head is still throbbing but after several tries, I’m finally able to open my eyes. To my gratitude the blinds in the infirmary are closed, creating only a soft dim light in the room. The room is quiet and it serves well for my oversensitive ears – they have been ringing since I woke but the lack of noises put the ringing at bay.

“You’re awake,” Madam Pomfrey states as she approaches me. “Do you feel better?” I shake my head. “Of course you don’t,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. She exhales audibly before dragging a wooden chair close to the bed and sits down on it. “I have sent for your mothers earlier. Hermione left me a note to let you know that she will be her as soon as her morning class is over. I’m afraid Bellatrix is not at the castle at the moment, but I’m sure your mother has a way to inform her about you being sick.”

They are calling my mothers? Great, I must be really, truly sick for that to happen. “Am I going to die?” I ask, my voice cracking. Hot tears begin to fill my eyes and I start to really feel sorry for myself.

My question must amuse her, somehow. Madam Pomfrey suppresses a smile, but I can hear a slight chuckle in her voice when she speaks again, “No you are not. I’m old, yes, but I don’t think I have lost a single student to an illness before. Don’t worry, child—what we have here may only be a serious case of cold.”

Well, that ‘may only be’ phrase she just used certainly doesn’t put me at ease. I may be very ill, but my brain isn’t dead. “So I _may_ die?” I ask, enunciating on the modal so much that Madam Pomfrey rolls her eyes. Before she has the chance to answer me, though, I hear someone coming. Two seconds later, a brown head appears from behind the separator.

“Druella sweetheart!” Mama flies to my bed and bends down to kiss my forehead. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier, honey,” she apologises, frowning as her lips touch my burning skin. “How are you feeling dear?”

“I’m sick,” I croak, lifting my arms and wrapping them loosely around her neck. “I want to go home,” I whisper.

Mama hugs me close for a second and kisses the top of my forehead. She then loosens her hold on me and straightens up to talk to Madam Pomfrey while her hand still holding mine. “Thank you for sending me the note, Poppy,” she says. “Her temperature is quite high, don’t you think?”

The smaller woman nods. “It is—but nothing to worry about, I suppose. From what I see, this must be a very bad cold. But of course we have to keep an eye on her, just to be sure,” she explains. That is basically the same thing she told me earlier, so that should be alright, shouldn’t it? “I’m worried about the shivering, though. I only hope it’s not a symptom of Ague.”

At the mention of that word, Mama’s face darkens. She holds my hand a little tighter. I don’t really know what kind of a disease that is, but it must be something serious—judging from how unhappy my mother looks now. Vaguely I recall that Headmistress McGonagall mentioned it some time ago about Third Year students not being allowed to visit Hogsmeade this year. Does it have something to do with this thing? I am starting to feel so afraid. “What’s that?” I ask, trembling. “What’s Ague?”

The two adults don’t seem to hear me, or if they do, they are ignoring me. “It can’t be Ague,” Mama says, her words sounding more like a plea rather than a statement. “No, it can’t be. How can it be? No students are allowed to Hogsmeade, unless—.. oh!” The two women exchange a look. Honestly, I don’t like it when adults do that—do they think we’re blind?

 “Am I going to die?” My voice is louder this time, headache forgotten.

Both heads turn towards me. “No, darling,” replies Mama without missing a beat. “What are you on about?”

“If you have Ague, Miss Black—which I doubt very much that you do,” the healer cuts us off, “then all that will happen to you is a very long rest in bed.” She must recognise my horrified expression at the prospect of having to spend my school year in the infirmary because she adds, “But, like I said before, it is highly unlikely. Still, young lady, I don’t want to see you out of bed for the next couple of days in the least unless I say otherwise. I don’t care how many classes and homework you will be missing. And don’t give me that look—yes, _that_ look. I’ve seen it so many times before in both your parents when I tell them things they don’t want to hear.”

I open my mouth, ready to protest; there’s no way I’m spending two days sleeping in, Ague or no Ague. But then I start having this terrible, blinding headache. I screw my eyes shut. Bloody head.

Madam Pomfrey pats my knee and continues talking, but this time she talks to Mama. “I’ve given her some potions for the fever, and I’ll get some more for the headache. But you know as well that the best cure for cold is a good rest—let the illness run its course. So please, Hermione, make her rest. And please tell Bellatrix that I will not appreciate it if either of you encourages her to get up or study before she is truly alright.”

Mama laughs at that. “I won’t do that, Poppy. I promise,” she assures.

The matron scoffs. “I wish that you speak for Bellatrix, too—your wife has this tendency to do exactly the opposite of what I tell her to do. Stubborn woman, that one is,” she admonishes. She then tells us that she has to tend to other patients, warns me not to exert myself, and leaves us.

“I’ll make sure to let her know,” Mama speaks in a playful tone. “Thank you.” She climbs my bed and carefully wraps her arms around me so that I’m lying on top of her chest. “Oh my poor, poor child,” she whispers, peppering kisses on my clammy forehead.

“I don’t feel well, Mama,” I say. “I want to go home.”

“Sshhh... go to sleep now, darling. Mama’s here. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” She starts humming some familiar melody while stroking my hair, soothing the pain in my head. It doesn’t take long until I drift to sleep without having the chance to ask Mother’s whereabouts.

* * *

 

It’s dark when I wake up and for a moment I feel a bit disoriented. Where am I? I am not in my dorm room, and this is definitely not the infirmary. Did Mama take me home? But this isn’t my room (or theirs) in Castle Black, either. A faint sound of paper being turned attracts my attention. Not wanting to upset my already-half-dizzy head, I turn my head very slowly.

There is Mama, sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace across the bed with a book in her hands. She looks so comfortable and I swear I can see a halo around her head—but it is gone when I blink. Well, that must mean that I’m not dead. It takes me a minute or two to realise that I’m in my mothers’ quarter at Hogwarts. “Mama?” I call out feebly. She doesn’t seem to hear me, so I call her again.

She lowers her book and looks at the bed for a moment, as if making sure that she really hears me. Then she puts the book away and approaches the bed. “Hi, sweetie,” she greets me with a smile. I reach out a hand and she takes it and kisses my knuckles. “What is it? Are you in pain? Do you need anything?” She sits on the bed next to me.

I shake my head slowly. “Why am I here?”

“I asked Madam Pomfrey to let you stay with us tonight,” she explains. “She wasn’t too happy about it, but I promised her I’d make sure you get plenty of rest so she finally relented—besides,” Mama looks so amused as she adds, “I think the prospect of having to face a very annoying Bellatrix demanding to see you in the middle of the night doesn’t really appeal to her.”

“Where’s Mother?” I suddenly remember that I haven’t seen my other mother since this morning.

“She’s gone to Hogsmeade,” Mama replies a little hotly. I sense that she doesn’t like that Mother is in the village instead of staying here. Then she looks at me closely. “You’re still having a temperature. I really hope it’s only the cold.”

“What’s Ague?”

“Something you don’t need to worry about,” she replies vaguely, “Now, young lady, stop asking questions; you’re supposed to rest – and that includes putting all curiosity aside. Are you hungry? I have some soup here for you.” The mention of the food sends another wave of nausea but I let Mama help me eat every spoonful of it. It tastes bland, but at least it’s not revolting and I manage to keep it down my stomach.

Just as I finish eating, Mother comes in like a whirlwind—her curly hair is wilder than usual and her robe is dishevelled. She mutters something as she closes the door behind her and walks towards Mama, who is still holding the empty cutlery. “Hey, pet,” the dark woman drawls, circling Mama’s waist in a swift movement and kisses her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I’m just going to change into something clean and check on Dru and—“ She glances at the bed and sees me. “Hey! You’re here!” she exclaims.

“Bella, don’t even think about it,” Mama warns as her wife is about to jump into the bed with her dirty robe and boots, raising an eyebrow.

Mother shrugs, but (thankfully) not going through with the jumping. I’m dizzy enough as it is without her treating the bed like a muggle trampoline or something. “My poor little raven,” she says as she puts her cool hand on my cheek. She furrows her brows. “That’s one high fever,” she comments. She looks at Mama. “What has she eaten for it?”

“Poppy gave her a dose of potions for the fever and shivering,” Mama replies slowly. She sounds a little unsure. “She doesn’t shiver anymore but she was talking in her sleep – yes, Dru, you were,” Mama speaks the last part to me.

“No shivering is a good sign,” Mother murmurs, “We can’t be sure, though, before the fever breaks.”

“I’m right here, you know,” I mumble a protest. The soup apparently does me good since I don’t feel so weak anymore.

“Well then pretend you’re not,” she replies absently, not looking at me. “I can brew a potion for her,” she says to Mama. “Or—or you go ask Hagrid if any of the ashwinders have laid more eggs. Tell him I need one to be frozen quickly for Dru, just in case.”

“Are you sure it’s necessary, Bella?” Mama’s eyes glaze with an unspoken question. She worries her lower lip; her arms were hugging her body as if she is going to be sick.

“Better safe than sorry,” replies Mother unfazed, taking off her robe as she speaks.

Mama doesn’t say anything else; she quickly grabs her cloak and leaves, but not before promising me she’ll be back before I know it. Mother sees her to the door and murmurs something I cannot catch, then she goes to change into a night gown and gets into bed. She wraps an arm around me and snuggles close until my head is under her chin. She is so warm, and she smells like home. “Comfortable?” she enquires. I nod a little and she tucks me in closer. We stay in silence for some time.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Work,” she replies vaguely.

“What’s Ague?”

“Something similar to a cold.”

“Is it dangerous?” I really hope that she gives me a clue. “Am I going to die?”

“Oh, nonsense!” she snaps, “Stop being so dramatic, Druella.”

“You adults say it like it is something serious, honestly,” I protest.

“Even if it is serious, do you think I’m going to let you die?” she asks in earnest. Who’s dramatic now?

“That’s not really for you to decide, is it? About dying?”

“Oh for the sake of all Black ancestors! Are you sure you’re ill, Miss Black? It seems like fever does not stop your mouth from running like Hogwarts Express.”

I cringe. She refuses to answer me directly, and that only means one thing. “You’re afraid,” I point out matter-of-factly. My eyes begin to water. “I’m in big trouble, aren’t I Mother?”

Mother looks exhausted as her eyes meet mine. “Are you going to believe me if I say ‘no’?” I hold my gaze for a second before nodding. She sighs. “Then trust me. It is nothing serious. If we’re worried, it’s only because we’re your parents. We are always worried when you’re sick.” Mother adjusts her position and starts rubbing circles soothingly on my back. “Especially Hermione—you know, your Mama used to make it a big deal whenever you so much as sneezed when you were a baby. Once, I think it was when you were around four or five months old, you had an ear infection. She begged me to let her give you Muggle medicine while in fact it only took me less than an hour to brew a potion that would remove the infection.”

 “Muggles have tasty flavoured medicine for children,” I tell her, my voice sounds sleepy in my ears.

“Shush now – I’m talking. And don’t make me ask you how you know that,” she says. I chuckle against her chest. My eyes are getting heavier as Mother continues talking, “And this Ague—the only reason I’m worried is because it’s been spreading like wildfire in Hogsmead. It won’t kill anyone, as long as they are treated well, but it takes time to cure. The potion is hard to make, and the only other known cure to it is frozen ashwinder eggs, which are quite rare since more and more people got sick.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Brewing potions in Hogsmeade?”

“Yes. I have to make large batches, with different measurements for children. And if they don’t drink it within two hours it can turn into poison—and so I have to keep making fresh ones.” She rubs her eyes and muffles a yawn. “I’m practically dead on my feet.” When I ask her whether she works alone, she laughs darkly. There’s something akin to sadness flashes in her eyes. “No one sane would...” She stops before finishing the sentence and shakes her head. “I have Longbottom working with me—him, and several other healers from St. Mungo.”

“So—“

“Now, child, you’re not the only one that needs some rest.” What she means is: ‘stop asking questions.’ She closes her eyes; it doesn’t take her long to fall asleep. Her breathing steadies, and the rise-and-fall of her chest lulls me to sleep. Soon, I, too, let slumber greet me.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm planning to take this story into quite a darker route. I think it is unrealistic to have Druella forever in the dark about her parents' history and background, even History of Magic will touch that sensitive subject sooner or later, and so I'm planning to take her into an unpleasant journey of discovering who Bellatrix really was. It's not going to be pretty, and I suppose some of the things that I'd write will make people uncomfortable.  
> So I need opinions from you lovely people:  
> 1\. Should I go on with this path? Or should I just pick something light (considering that most of Bellamione stories are dark already)?  
> 2\. If I do write the story, at what age do you think it's appropriate for Dru to learn about Bellatrix's history?
> 
> Let me know what you think, and thanks a lot for reading!


	7. And the World Crashes and Burns (part 1 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally got her master's degree, people?! Yep, this witch over here! So as a celebration I decided to write an angsty chapter. You have been warned. 
> 
> This chapter is unbetaed, not even reread the second time before posting; so I hope nothing weird is going on in here. I am going to shut up now and let you on to the chapter. Please let me know what you think, if you have time, that is. 
> 
> Thanks :)

I'm falling—spiralling into whatever it is I just got myself into (trouble, most probably—but what’s new?). Fear begins to creep in as I fall, latching into the base of my nape with its cold unforgiving fingers, whispering so much terror into me that when my feet finally touch solid ground my heart is beating like the drum. What is this place? Why is everything so dark? Why is it so cold? How do I get here? What the—...

A whimper catches my ears, cutting me through my stream of thoughts. I whirl around, wand drawn. Not too far away from me are silhouettes of two people—one sprawling on the floor and the other on top of that person.

“ _I didn’t take anything... please, I didn’t take anything.._.”

My blood runs cold in an instant. That voice—I know that voice. I take a step forward. “Mama?” I call out meekly, voice catching in my throat as I now can see the two people clearly. “Mother?”

The scream that follows pierces my very soul. I am frozen at my spot, unable to move a muscle as Mother draws her favourite silver dagger from her boots. No! No! What is this? I don’t want to see!

Mama’s scream is getting louder, carrying so much pain and horror that I am so scared for her life. Why? Mother, why?? I am nauseated as the tip of the dagger ghosts an inch from Mama’s skin—dreading what’s happening next. Mother... “NO! Stop!”

Then suddenly I am jerked upwards by a hand grabbing my upper arms in a painful grip; everything swirls in wisp of dark smoke, and I find myself back at Hogwarts in my parents’ quarter in the next second. I look up to see Mother’s dark eyes looking at me widely with something akin to panic. Fear kicks start me and before I know it, I have yanked my arm from her grip and backed away into the wall behind me.

“Don’t touch me!” I choke out, crying and trembling like a leaf. She takes a step forward with her arms open, but I shake my head. The image of her on top of my Mama with that crazy look on her face is still too fresh in my memory. I start sobbing, “Don’t hurt me.”

“Dru—...” she begins pleadingly. Her face falls as I point my wand at her, but she takes another step towards me.

“Nooo!” I push her away and run out of the room without looking back. I have never felt so sick and scared in my life. She is going to hurt me. My mother is going to hurt me. Hot tears block my view as I dash blindly through the halls, ignoring Mother’s calling behind me and hoping she isn’t following me. I need to—... I stop dead in my tracks. What do I need? _Who_ do I need? Questions upon questions are weighing my brain without giving it a chance to process. Everything hurts. I crouch in the middle of the (thankfully) empty hallway, hugging my midsection and trying to swallow the urge to scream. What did I just see? What was that? Why was she hurting Mama? Why? Why?!

“Miss Black?” I flinch at the sound of a female voice calling me from behind. I look up to see Headmistress McGonagall walk towards me in a bit of a hurry, concern etched in her face. “Miss Black, what’s the mat—...” she falters when she sees my face, which has to be really pale. “Oh dear, you’re not well.” The professor gently puts one hand on my back and the other on my elbow, helping me to stand. “It’s alright,” she says. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.” She carefully draws me close to her arms so that I’m leaning on her front. To one of the students walking with her she requests, “Mr. Oliver, would you please help me inform Professor Granger and Professor Black that Miss Black is ill.”

I tense at the mention of those two names. I grab the Headmistress’ sleeve and look at her wildly. “No, please...” I beg, not even knowing what I’m begging for. “Don’t call them. _Please_.” I don’t want to see them.

She arches her eyebrows in surprise; for a moment it seems that she is at a loss. The she realises that the student is still there, waiting. She clears her throat and dismisses the student. Headmistress McGonagall leads me along the hall, and truth be said, right now I don’t care if she takes me to the dungeon as long as I can get as far away from my parents.  It’s not until we pass the painting of the donkey near the Great Hall do I realise we’re heading to the opposite direction of the infirmary; we’re heading to her office. And as if knowing my reluctance to go to her office, I feel her grip tightens around my upper arm. She doesn’t say a word on our way to her office, save for her saying her password to the gargoyle guarding her office.

The headmistress sits me down on a sofa at the corner of her office instead of on the chair by her desk; she waves her wand and soon there is two cups of hot tea on the small table in front of us. “Drink.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

I take a small sip of the tea with my trembling hands and feel warmth returns to my body—warmth, and all the emotions I’ve been trying to filter. My shoulders sag and my tears begin anew; droplets of salty liquid shamelessly roll down my face as I cry so hard my whole frame is shaking, no longer caring in front of whom I am doing it.

The Headmistress doesn’t say anything, nor does she do anything. She just sits there next to me and let me cry my heart out until my voice becomes hoarse and all my tears dry up. Even then, she still says nothing but urges me to drink some more tea. Realisation dawns on me as I drink my second helping of tea. I just cry in front of the Headmistress! My cheeks burn with shame and I hung my head low, unable to look at the older woman in the eyes.

“History of Magic?” She breaks the silence after a while. I shake my head no. She sighs, pats my shoulder affectionately and goes to her desk. From the corner of my eyes I see her scribbling something on a piece of paper, which is gone with a flick of her wand. I know exactly what she is doing. She is calling my parents.

“You know, don’t you?” I whisper hoarsely. She turns around and looks at me questioningly. A drop of tear falls from my eye. “About my parents—about Mother,” I elaborate. “You know what she is.”

“Who she _was_ , Miss Black,” she says carefully, “isn’t the person she is now.”

“But you _know_ ,” I say accusingly. “ _Everybody_ knows. Everybody but me.”

She contemplates for a second. “This is not a conversation you should be having with me, child,” she decides. Before either of us can say anything else, there is a knock on the door. Mama enters the office, and from the look of her I know she already knows what happened. McGonagall gives me a look. “I think you two need to talk,” she says. She gathers her books and walks to the door. To Mama she says, “Feel free to use the office. I’ll be in Transfiguration class if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Minerva,” Mama replies gratefully. She waits until the Headmistress closes the door behind her before turning around to face me. She is still standing by the door. “Can I come near you?” she asks.

I swallow the lump in my throat and lower my head, not knowing what to say. It is so hard to look at her now and not seeing the image of her younger self on the floor with pure terror on her face. “No.”

“Alright,” she resigns. “I’ll just sit right here then?”

“No.”

“Druella... darling, look at me, please?”

I meet her eyes. There are no fear in them—only love. And compassion. And so much sadness that it brings fresh tears to my eyes. I am so sick of crying already. “You lied to me.”

Mama cringes at the venom in my voice when I whisper the accusation. “Dru...”

“You. Lied. To. Me,” I hiss each and every word. “I asked you time and time again about the scar in your arm. And _you lied_.”

“Yes, I did,” she says. “But I did it to protect you.”

“From what? From _her_?” I am on my feet instantly. “All those things I asked you—the things I learned in class about a Bellatrix _Lestrange_ that uncannily fits Mother’s description—you denied every single one of them! Why? Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt,” she replies calmly. How can anyone be calm in this kind of situation? “Because you were—and still are—too young to understand.”

“Too young to understand what—that my mother is a murderer? That she gets off from killing and torturing people? That she is blood-thirsty?” I bellow.

“Druella,” she warns.

“A-and that thing I saw...” I want to throw up remembering it. “What was that? W-was that true?” Please say no, please say no—I don’t want to hear it.

“It was in the past.”

It’s like lightning in broad daylight. My world, this perfect little world I have thought to be true, crumbles into pieces around me. I sway and fall to the floor next to the sofa; my feet are too weak to support me.

“She’s not that person anymore, Druella,” Mama continues. “Who she was then has nothing to do with who she is now.”

“Why are you defending her? For Merlin’s sake, Mama, how can you be saying these things? After all she’d done! She is trying to kill you!”

“Was!” Mama’s voice raises a notch. Then she seems to remember something and tries to calm herself. She walks towards me and sits on the floor, careful not to invade my personal space. Her next words are soft, “Druella, sweetie, I know that what you saw in the Pensieve has shocked you. And I know that for you everything is so fresh, so raw, so new—so painful. But Darling, it happened so long ago in the past. Please... Druella, don’t mix the past and the present. Please.”

I am not listening. I don’t want to. How can I? Everything in all the fifteen years of my existence has been a lie. I fix my gaze at Mama. How can she live like this? How can she endure living with the person who did all those horrifying things to her? How can she love such a monster?

“That is enough, Druella!” Mama’s sharp words ring in my ears. Apparently I have said everything out loud for her to hear. And she is clearly unhappy about it. She stands up and looks down at me furiously. Her voice is trembling with anger when she finally manages to speak, “I know that you are hurt. I know that we are in the wrong for not coming out with the truth—but that does not give you the right to speak like that about your Mother, about _my_ wife.”

All of the sudden, I feel pins and needles pricking my skin from head to toe and I know that I have crossed a line. Never in my life have I ever experienced this kind of unchecked magic, angry wild magic, directed at me. “Mama...”

“No, you don’t get to speak!” she cuts me off. Mama wipes an angry tear from her cheek as she stares at me. “For years... for _so many years_ I have to put my feelings in check, turn a deaf ear, and swallow my pain when everyone speaks ill about Bellatrix. I have endured every single mockery, every single jibe and insult about her and me—and _you_. I’ve known what I was getting into when I fell in love with her; I’ve known all along that it wasn’t going to be like a stroll in the park. But I accepted it. _We_ accepted it. Because I love her and she loves me,” she pauses. Her chest is heaving as she tries to calm herself but failing. She cries. “And because we love you so much, Druella. But now? To hear you call her a monster? Your own mother? The woman who would turn heaven and earth to protect you? No, young lady, you don’t get to speak about her like that. I can take it from other people, but not from you. Never from you.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you both lied to me.” How can she blame me for all of those things? “It doesn’t change the fact that she was a murderer.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she admits. “But it doesn’t give you the right to judge her. Bellatrix repented. She is no longer the woman she used to be. And you need to apologise to your Mother.”

“I will not do such a thing,” I say indignantly. I stand up and glare at her unflinchingly. Then I say something I know I will regret later. “I hate you both. I wish I was never born.” I tear my eyes from her face, not wanting to see the devastation that must be painted there. I hurry to the door without looking back, not knowing if I should be relieved or sad that she doesn’t even try to stop me.

And just before the door closes behind me I hear one of the paintings says mockingly, “Well, you handled that well, Granger.”

“Shut up, Severus,” Mama growls, “Just shut up.”

 

\--TBC--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to receive a lot of protests about Hermione's reaction on this one. Trust me, I have tried to write it differently--with understanding Hermione and all, but it's so unrealistic in my head. And I guess she also has this pent-up anger about being the object of people's talk for years, which she can take as long as it is not from the people she love the most. I really want to know what you think, though, no matter how different it is from my own ideas. I need some input on how to resolve this conflict, and I think hearing different opinions will give me more options.
> 
> Thanks for reading. And sorry if this chapter is not what you have expected.


	8. And the World Crashes and Burns (part 2 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was planning to update Star, Wind, Sunshine and Love and ended up writing the next part of Glimpses instead. And apparently I have to break this storyline into three parts because it's getting too long. Not too much interaction among the three Blacks in this chapter (like, almost zilch), but I've planned to bring everything into a full circle on the next chapter so just stay tune. 
> 
> As usual, any input is welcome. I have to admit that it is very difficult to portray an upset teenager even though I've been a mess myself back when I was in my teen. So please let me know if there's anything I need to change/improve about the characterisation. Oh, and one more thing: please remember that Dru is 15 in this chapter, and I am trying so hard to give her the maturity of a person that age. Any mistakes or inconsistencies are my shortcomings. 
> 
> Thanks for everyone who kudo-ed this story. You are all amazing.

It’s really amazing how your limbs can move on their own accords even though your brain isn’t exactly functioning; everything around me is a blur as my two feet are taking me away from the Headmistress’ office—away from Mama. A part of my brain, the mechanical one, seems to know to which direction of the castle I’m heading, but the rest of me simply don’t give a damn. My head is hurting like hell and the prickly sensation all over my body doesn’t seem to dissipate even when I know I’m too far away for my Mama’s magic to reach.

At the thought of that my legs weaken and I sway, wincing as my right shoulder hits the brick wall. For a moment I have to lean in on the wall to steady myself, quite thankful that I’m still standing upright when a bunch of Sixth Year Gryffindors pass me by. They give me a wide berth, glancing curiously when they walk past but say nothing. It’s not something I’d taken offense of—I’m used to getting that reaction from those who don’t know me personally ever since the truth about my parentage is known. Truth be told, I used to be proud about it, too. But now... Now I know why they’ve been avoiding me. They don’t do it out of respect of my parents—they do it out of fear. Fear of the infamous Bellatrix Black. Or is it _Lestrange_? I can’t even determine what is true and what is not. I bit my tongue when my throat begins to close up painfully. I am not going to cry again. Steeling myself, I force my feet to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. It is a foolish attempt, I realise deep down—one cannot run from oneself. _Oh, but this one can_ , I tell myself. _This one will_.

Apparently, this one thinks too highly of herself.

By the time the sun glows the last of its lazy shade of orange, all I get from all the walking and pacing are sore feet and exhausted soul. And I don’t feel any better; if anything, I feel even worse. I hung my head low, feeling the tears of frustration bubble up my chest, but before the first droplet falls a friendly voice speaks from behind me.

“Why, Miss Black, to what do I ow this pleas—... uh...,” the words die as I turn around to face Professor Longbottom, who is crouching on the far row of the glass house wearing gloves and holding a pair of scissors in his hand. His smile falters immediately he sees my face. I must look like death warmed over. The tall professor straightens up, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his free arm. “Are... are you alright?” he asks, fiddling with the scissors in his hand.

I just stare at him without answering. I don’t know what to say, really. I didn’t come here by choice—heck, I didn’t even know where I was before he spoke to me.

He frowns at my lack of response. The professor then puts away his scissors, takes off his gloves, shoves them into the pocket of his coveralls, and walks towards me. He stops a couple of steps away from me. “Hey, Dru?” he tries, calling me by my first name. Something he’s never done before. “What happened? Do you want me to call Hermione? Or Black?”

I notice. His voice carries a slight hesitancy when he mentions Mother, and that use of last name when referring to her—even a fellow professor wants to distance himself from Mother. How messed up is that? “I’m okay,” I lie when I finally find my voice.

He regards me for a second, then, to my relief, nods. “I see,” he says. The professor clears his throat and walks backwards with his eyes still on me. “Well then, feel free to stay if you want,” he invites with a smile of understanding, “I can use the company. I don’t get many visitors here.” He fishes the dirty gloves out of his pockets and wears them again. “There are spare gloves and scissors on my desk over there if you want to help. These shrivelfigs have been sprouting like crazy no thanks to my new spell, and I can use a hand pruning them.”

“I...”

He waves a hand dismissively before I can get two words out. “Ah, right—how silly of me! Of course you don’t want to dirty your hands before dinnertime.” He chuckles. “You are still welcome to stay, though. Don’t worry about helping.”

I nod and walk to the side farther away from where the professor is working and sit on the windowsill overseeing the vast ground of Hogwarts. Millions of thoughts invade my brain as soon as I stop moving, hurting my head. I’m still numb on the inside. So lost. So miserable. And so alone. Oh, dear Merlin, I am not used to feeling alone; it is such a foreign concept for me that I can’t put my fingers on what to do. How can I cope with something I’m not familiar with? I’ve always had my mothers to rely on—their presence is so constant in my life and there wasn’t a single time when they weren’t with me. Even when they can’t be with me physically, we have that mental bond that ties us together. But now? I stare blankly at my empty hands; now I can’t even feel them. And it hurts.

Now it all makes sense—all those things that I’ve noticed throughout the years, the little things that have always been slightly off and out of place are now starting to click into place. I’m starting to understand why Uncle Harry and Ron never let their children come to our castle for a visit; why Mother never comes with Mama and I whenever we have our annual summer dinner; why Aunt Andy refuses to talk about how her daughter died; and why both my parents have that haunted look whenever I ask them about the War. I get it now.

My Mother did unspeakable things. And we are all paying the price.

“I used to come here too when I need some peace back when I was still a student, you know,” Professor Longbottom says. He is now standing next to me, looking at the grounds outside, with his hands inside his pockets. I didn’t even realise him approaching. “Things weren’t always good for me. I never excelled in any of my classes. I’m awful at Quidditch. And unlike Hermione or other people in my year, I never had that many friends.” From my peripheral I see him glancing at me before adding, “I was bullied a lot.”

“Sorry,” I offer quietly.

“Not your fault. Your mum was actually one of the nicest, especially after she hexed me during our first year.”

My head whips upwards, interested in this brand new information. My Mama? Hexing Professor Longbottom? A smile begins to form on my face, only to falter again the next second as I remember about what I saw a few hours earlier.

“Hermione might be crazy about the library, but for me, this place is my second home in Hogwarts. Professor Sprout—my old Herbology professor—was the only person I could talk to whenever things get too burdensome to bear.”

“What about your parents?” I ask, partly curious and partly only being polite.

There is a pause before he answers. His face darkens and for a split second I saw him grit his teeth. “They were... sick.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “Are they okay now?”

“Not really,” he replies sombrely.

We stay silent for a few minutes. He’s busy with his thoughts and I’m busy building my courage to ask him about something. I count to five and take a deep breath. “Professor Longbottom?” I begin. He hums his acknowledgment. “Do you... Are you...”It’s so hard to find the right words. “Do you know my Mother when you were younger?”

I must have said something wrong. Professor Longbottom looks as if he’s going to spontaneously combust. His eyes darken and his jaws harden, his lips thinning into one straight line. I can literally see him struggle to compose himself as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He turns his head away from me as he hisses, “Yeah.” Did I just cross a line? “Yeah, I know Bellatrix Le—Black alright.”

“You were there during the War, weren’t you? I read it in the—.. Oh!” I clasp my mouth shut with a hand, turning beet red as realisation dawns on me. Longbottom! I know that name! And suddenly the floodgate of information burst open; every single thing I’ve memorised for my OWL about the Wizarding Wars returns to me like a vengeance. The neurons in my brain quickly make the connections between names and timeline: Lestrange and Longbottom. First Wizarding War. Torture. Insanity. St. Mungo’s.

I blanch, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of me. This man—my professor—is the son of the two Aurors tortured to insanity by some death eaters, one of whom was a Bellatrix Lestrange. My mother. I back away from him, trembling to the core. Standing here before me is another proof, another victim of my mother’s bloodlust. I clutch at my robe until my knuckles turn white as tears stream down my face. My brain is overloaded with all those horrible words the History of Magic use to describe my mother.

“Miss Black, what’s wrong?” he asks in a bit of a panic, clearly not used to having students crying in front of him. “Hey, what’s the matter?” He reaches out his hand and grabs my shoulder, shaking it a little. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head frantically, my mouth opening and closing wordlessly as I struggle to breathe and talk at the same time. I can’t bear looking at him without feeling a sense of guilt and dread. This man in front of me—he lost his parents because of Mother. And now he is trying to comfort me? How can he be so nice to the child of the woman bereaving him of his own parents? How can he stand working side by side with my mother, knowing exactly what she had done to him, to his family? I cry even harder as his earlier words replay in my head: he had no friends as a child, nobody to talk to—he was bullied. All because of my mother.

In between my crying and thinking I can barely make out what he is saying to me; I know he is trying to ask me to stop crying and tell him what’s wrong. Again, I try to open my mouth to apologise to him—for crying, for troubling him, and for what Mother did to him and his family. This time I manage to sob out a ‘sorry.’

He sighs, clearly at a loss of what to do. But finally I think he decides that it’s better for me to just cry it out (his words); he stands up and leaves, only to return a couple of minutes later with a supply of tissues and a hot cup of tea. Professor Longbottom sits next to me without saying another word, waiting for my crazy sobbing to subside into a noiseless tear and occasional hiccups.

“I’m sorry,” I croak hoarsely. My throat is dry and it is painful to even utter a word. I feel so drained and my body is aching all over. _That’s your punishment for crying too much, you moron_ , I berate myself inside.

“We all have that moment,” is his only comment. He pushes the now lukewarm tea into my hands. “Drink a bit, you’ll feel better.”

I put the cup aside without drinking it. “Not thirsty,” I refuse. “I’m tired.” My eyes are so heavy; it’s like someone laced them with lead. They droop close.

* * *

 

“Thank you for sending for me, Longbottom.”

A familiar voice speaks not far away from me. Did I fall asleep? I try opening my eyes but I’m still too tired to do so.

“She asked me about the Wars,” I hear a male voice says, “I think I must have upset her. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” the other voice replies, “She found my Pensieve.”

“Oh? Oh!” Silence. “So... what are you going to do about it?”

I cannot really make out the answer as I think I have fallen asleep again. Then I feel a pair of arms gently lift me up from the hard ledge. I jerk away, but the slender arms hold me firmly and the owner of those arms whispers words of assurance that lulls me into deeper slumber.

* * *

 

I am alone when I wake up in the infirmary the next day. And as the day progresses without so much as a visitor, a part of me is hoping that my parents will come to get me—no matter how apprehensive I’m feeling about seeing them again. But they never come. Not even when Madam Pomfrey finally kicks me out of the infirmary after dinnertime, telling me to go straight to Ravenclaw tower.

I find myself in front of my mothers’ quarters instead. For some time I stand at the door, staring at it not knowing what to do. Then before I can do anything the Headmistress calls my name out. I turn around to meet her very concerned eyes.

“They’re not in, Miss Black,” she says softly. Is that pity I’m hearing in her voice?

“Wh—where are they?” I hate how unsure I sound at the moment.

“I’m not sure I have that information. Bellatrix asked for my permission to leave Hogwarts for some time—she didn’t really specify how long. Hermione said she’ll be back in a day or two.”

My heart drops. “They left me?”

Headmistress Mcgonagall trains her gaze at me, considering her words before settling with, “I believe that you aren’t the only one that needs time from this ordeal.”

“They lied to me,” I begin again.

“So they did,” the Headmistress says flatly. She fishes something from the sleeve of her robe. An envelope with my name on it. I recognise that handwriting anywhere—Mother’s. “Your mother asked me to give you this.”

I don’t hold out my hand to take it. Anger is still hot in my head. They lied to me. And now they both leave me. “I don’t want to read it.”

The older woman raises her eyebrows and looks at me disapprovingly. She puts the envelope back in her pocket. “Suit yourself then. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” She turns around and walks away.

I dash back to my dormitory without delay, ignoring all the questions from my friends about my whereabouts since yesterday and go straight to bed. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, just... don’t cry_! I chant myself to sleep.

 

-TBC-


	9. And the World Crashes and Burns (part 3 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darling. I'm back. Not as quickly as I'd expected, but at least this time I didn't wait until a year and a half to update.
> 
> A lot of things happened since the last time I updated: I had my graduation ceremony, and my grandmother passed away right the next day (tomorrow is exactly a month since she passed). My life was a mess, literally. I usually write when I'm stressed out; for the first time in my life writing couldn't help me cope. I didn't even want to write anything.  
> Buuuuut... I'm back. 
> 
> This is the chapter I promised to update a month or so ago. Not sure if it's enough to wrap up such a 'grand' conflict I'd created in the previous two chapters, but it's the only solution I can think of that's the most natural right now. 
> 
> So I'm going to shut up now and let you read. Thank you for being so patient with this moody writer who keeps on making promises but rarely delivers. Have a great weekend, everyone.

There’s an eerie kind of stillness that always comes after a violent storm—everything is so serene, and quiet, and calm as if nothing happens, but then you look around and find the destruction that the storm leaves behind. That’s how I feel at the moment. Calm. And messed up inside.

It has been three days, and my mothers have yet to return. People have started asking questions here and there, gossiping like they have nothing better to do. One or two Slytherins, whom I don’t know, actually came to me to ask whether Professor Black was coming back anytime soon because they have an assignment they really didn’t want to do (one involving the Black Lake or something). Really, the audacity! I can’t begin to express how relieved I feel when the weekend finally comes rolling.

Arming myself with my books, some food, and a very heavy tome that holds the old issues of Daily Prophets dating back to the 1970s, I hide in the boathouse. It is such a great coincidence that most of the students are going to Hogsmeade this weekend, or else there may be some awkward moments when a couple thinking of doing Merlin-knows-what barges in and disturb my peace.

So, here I am a few hours later, still in the boathouse, sitting on my haunches behind some large wooden crates with a tome on my lap. Reading. Or not.

My mind has been wandering away every so often that I haven’t really done much reading. I flip through the pages of old Daily Prophets, looking for the news about the Wars—anything that can help me understand. Each piece of information does nothing but send me deeper into frustrations and more questions than answers. It’s like digging through the rabbit hole. Only Wonderland is nowhere to be found.

I’ve been trying to wrap my head around what happened in the past: About how my Mother became the... person she was back then; the woman whose name cast fear on whoever hears it. I can’t understand how her and Mama’s paths crossed—why Mother did what she did to Mama. And I really don’t understand how it changed into what it is now. People don’t go into marrying people who tortured them, do they? I don’t understand, and these papers clearly don’t help.

Then I open the next page and glance at the cover. And freeze. It was a very old black-and-white picture from the seventies; in it was a crazy-looking woman in a prison suit snarling at the photographer—her curly hair was unruly, eyes wild and unhinged, and she’s so gaunt that her cheekbones jut out against her skin. My heart starts beating wildly against my ribcage. I’d recognise that face anywhere. Mother.

My throat catches at the sight of the picture. Slowly, with a trembling hand, I run my fingers across the picture. How different she was back then—fearsome. But she is my Mother alright. And I miss her. Oh Merlin, how I miss her.

A drop of tear falls onto the yellowy paper, followed by many others. A sob escapes my mouth. I hold the tome close to my heart and weep as I let myself feel every single emotion that I’ve been trying to repress these past few days. Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I give them a chance to explain anything? Why did I have to be so stupid and ignorant and stubborn?

I realise now that I’m not that angry anymore. The fire that was burning so hot on my head is just not there anymore. I guess I was never angry, to begin with. I was just so scared and hurt—still so scared and hurt. And I need my mothers. Admitting it apparently opens up a can of questions that I’ve been trying to avoid: Where are Mama and Mother? Are they ever coming back? Am I going to see them again? Did I overreact? Did I hurt Mama? Did I hurt Mother? Do they hate me—does _Mother_ hate me? Will she ever forgive me? Will _Mama_? Should I have apologised? What do I do now? Oh, Merlin, what do I do now?

I miss them so much it hurts. I want Mama! I want _Mother_.

Suddenly I realise that I’m no longer alone in the room. My shoulders tense up in an instant. Who is it? Do they hear my crying? I keep as still as possible.

“Druella?”

If I didn’t have enough self-control, I would already be leaping at the moment at the sound of that voice. But I restrain myself. “You left me,” I whisper softly, fearing that she would be gone if I spoke too loudly.

There’s a sigh. “No, Dru. We just left.” I say nothing. “There’s a difference,” she adds. Then, hesitantly, she asks, “Can I... May I come closer?”

_Yes_. “No,” I say quickly.

“Okay,” Mama replies. She steps away, and I can hear her footsteps heading towards the door. Suddenly I’ve got a crippling fear that she’s going to leave me. Again.

“No, don’t leave me!” I call out frantically, springing to my feet in an instant dropping my book to the wooden floor with a thud. She looks startled. And can’t be more embarrassed to see that she is, in fact, not leaving; she’s just about to sit on one of the crates near the door.

She halts her movement for a second—something akin to old memories are seen flashing in her eyes, then take a step towards me. “I’m not leaving you, Dru,” she assures. “I never have.”

“But you did,” I accused. _And whose fault is that, Dru, you bloody idiot?!_ My cheeks redden.

 “I left—Hogwarts, that is. Not you. _Never_ you.”

_That’s kind of the same thing._ I stop myself from replying, though, realising that I sound like a broken record, like a whiny five-year-old. I avoid her gaze and pretend to be very interested in my stuff that is scattered around me on the floor.

“Bellatrix needed me,” Mama says after some time. I look up to find her still staring out the window. She looks so sad, and it breaks my heart to see her like this; even more, because I know that it’s me who hurts her.

“I needed you, too,” I can’t help but point out.

Her head whips to my directions, annoyance in her eyes. “Don’t I know that, Dru? Do you think I like having to choo—....” She stops herself mid-sentence and closes her eyes. I can actually see her mentally counting to ten to control her temper. She takes a deep breath and reopens her eyes. “Sorry,” she apologises, “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.”

But why shouldn’t she, when I so deserve to be lashed out at?

Mama brushes a strand of hair that has fallen to her forehead. She is quiet. Thinking. Then she begins, “I know what I did. I know the choices I made.” Her eyes look straight into mine. “I’d do the same if I had to do it all over again. I didn’t leave _you_ , Druella. I leave this place. Hogwarts. Not you—whatever it is you think or believe. You are safe here. Well taken care of. Minerva would ensure that no harm would befall you.”

I open my mouth, but she shakes her head a little, asking me to listen. This time I am.

“But Bella... I can’t—... She was all alone. She was hurt, and scared; she was so terrified like I never saw before. She didn’t have anywhere to go. No one to turn to. Your mother, _my wife_ , needed me more than you did.” She balls her fist, and I know she’s on the verge of crying. Her chest is heaving, and her voice cracks as she continues, “I left this place, Druella, because I knew that she wasn’t going to be safe, that she was going to do something that she would regret for the rest of her life. I left because I knew that if I had let her out of my sight then, I—no, _we_ —would never see her again. Ever.” She is openly crying now, her frame shakes violently as if she’s trying her best to contain all her emotion.

I’m rooted on my spot, unsure of how to respond to the raw display of emotion before me. I hurt her—I hurt them both. I want to apologise. I want to hold her. But do I still have that right?

“So blame me all you want, child, hate me with all your might, because there was nothing on earth that would stop me from going after Bellatrix that night. And I will not apologise for making that choice,” she says, “I know that you are angry at us for lying. I understand how betrayed you must have felt. We never meant to hurt you that way.”

“But I’m not even angry anymore,” I admit in a small voice, fiddling with the hem of my sleeve. “I just...” I am at a loss for words; I don’t know what else to say. _Please forgive me_ , I want to say, but nothing comes out. _Please hold me_.

Before I can blink, she’s moved towards me and enveloped me in her arms. I cling to her so tightly, feeling so warm. My fear and pain fade away as her magic soothes me; her voice rings forgiveness and love in my head.

We stay in the boathouse crying for quite some time. Then, when we have cried our eyes out and our voices are hoarse, I ask Mama about Mother’s whereabouts. She smiles enigmatically and replies with a word, “Safe.”

Fresh tears begin to cloud my view. “She’s not coming back?” Guilt is eating my heart like worms.

Mama cups my face and lifts it so we are eye-to-eye. “Don’t do it to yourself,” she says as if knowing what I’m thinking. “Your Mother is an adult; she makes her own decisions—albeit sometimes questionable.”

She isn’t answering my question, and I am now honestly scared. “She left because of me,” I said, ashamed. “I called her a monster.”

“She left because she wanted to leave. And she will be back when she wants to come back. It is nobody else’s decision but hers.” Mama speaks in such a tone that leaves no room for argument. Then she grows silent, contemplating. “About that other issue... I think you and I should talk. If you’re ready, that is,” she adds quickly.

I nod. Maybe it’s high time that I stop being such an entitled little brat and start to think like the logical person Hogwarts thinks I am.

Mama kisses the top of my head and tightens her hold of me. Then she groans. “Ugh, I totally forgot that we’re at Hogwarts,” she grumbles. I raise my eyebrows in question. “No Apparating,” she explains, “We have to walk to the castle.”

* * *

 

Stepping into my parents’ quarters, I feel a slight apprehension crawling up my nape like a cold hand; I shiver, jerking involuntarily as Mama closes the door behind us. She puts her coat on the hanger by the door and flicks her wand wordlessly. A fraction of second later fire is blazing in the fireplace, warming the place. From the corner of my eyes, I see a kettle fill itself with water before flying on its own to the stove.

A warm feeling grows inside me, chasing away the invisible cold hand that gripped me earlier. It feels so domestic. It feels like home. Almost.

“She doesn’t hate you, you know,” Mama says quietly from the kitchenette; she is facing away from me, preparing tea for the both of us. “No matter what you think, she doesn’t blame you either.” The _she blames herself_ part is left unspoken—but I know it’s implied.

“I overreacted,” I admit sheepishly.

It takes her a second to reply. “You did.” She looks over her shoulder. “You didn’t know better.”

“I should have.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, my dear,” Mama says. She takes a deep breath and tells me to take off my cloak and sit down.

I didn’t even realise that I’m still standing at the door before she mentioned it. I drop my bag on the floor and hang my cloak before heading to the sofa, where she’s now sitting. Mama looks exhausted; there are dark circles under her eyes, and her face is so pale. _You did this_ , my head accuses, _you should’ve known better_.

“We can’t change the past, Dru—what’s done is done.”

I look up to see her staring at me, and I’ve got this feeling that she’s just read my mind. We stay silent for a while, busy with our own thoughts. There are several times I see her beginning to open her mouth but she quickly frowns and decides not to say whatever it is she’s thinking. And when she finally does speak, I let out the breath I don’t know I’ve been holding.

“Your Mother, she—.. was a completely different person back then,” Mama says. But don’t I already know that? I stay quiet. “Yes, she did a lot of unspeakable things in the past, back when she was younger. But she paid for everything. She can’t raise the dead; she can’t give back the lives of the people she’d hurt and scarred—but what she could do to amend herself, she did.” She glances at me, trying to judge my reaction. Then she sighs. “Trust me, her transformation to become who she is now was not a stroll in the park. I wish I could tell you more, Dru. But that’s not my story to tell—you have to ask her.”

“ _If_ she wants to answer me,” I say off-handedly.

She gives me a pointed look. “She wasn’t born a killer. Nobody is. She’s only the product of the twisted society she grew up in—the one emphasising on blood purity,” she says. “Not everything she’s learned is bad, of course. Everything she teaches you about how to become a respectful Black, how to act, and how you should always excel in all you do is what she herself had to learn as a child. And she was also taught that her value as a person was to obey what people decided for her. She wasn’t allowed her opinion until it was too late.”

I stare at her wide-eyed as she tells me about how Mother’s father forced her into marriage with another pureblood family, and how he practically introduced her to a person who held values as twisted as her family, and even worse. “Voldemort,” I whisper.

Mama nods. She pulls me close and lets me stay in her arms as she continues. “You did a lot of research, I see.”

“She was mentioned in our History of Magic book. I didn’t make the connection.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve got no reason to,” she says, smiling. “And that just proves how far she is now from the person she was before.”

“The thing that I saw...”

“Was a fragment of her memory,” she finishes my sentence.

“She was going to kill you.”

“It was a lifetime ago,” Mama says firmly. “It was different then.”

She keeps saying that, but I don’t understand. How bad were things back then that some people just decided that it was alright to torture people into insanity and murder them on a whim? Didn’t they have any conscience?

“We were at war then, Druella. We were fighting for the opposing sides. In her eyes I was the enemy; in mine, she was. War is ugly—it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do. It changes people, tears families apart. We were ready to die for our cause.”

“She... she was accusing you of taking something,” I recall. “Why didn’t she just ask you like a normal person? Why did she have to resort to violence?”

I must be asking something that irks her because she takes a long, deep breath before answering me. “When all that everyone throws at you is violence, that is the only language you know.”

“She had a choice, didn’t she?” I ask, trying to make sense of all of this. “She was an adult. You told me that once a person reaches adulthood what they do is their own responsibility—their choice.”

“Yes, she did have a choice: her life or mine.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mama shakes her head dejectedly. “I can’t help you with that,” she says. A sad smile appears on her face. “I can spend days, weeks—years, even—talking to you about this, but I don’t think I won’t be able to make you understand if you keep on processing this only with your head.”

“I’m a Ravenclaw,” I argue.

“You are our daughter first,” she counters sharply.

I cannot argue with that. I pretend to be very interested in the pattern of the tablecloth, not daring to look her in the eyes.

“She loves you, Druella,” Mama says after a while. “She loves you more than she loves life itself. We both love you. Yes, she made terrible choices when she was younger. But I was no saint in that matter. I’ve made my fair share of terrible judgements—hiding about our past from you is one of them.” I lift my head, surprised. She scoffs. “What? Not expecting that, aren’t you, child? It was me who insisted to put the past behind, open a new life with you knowing us only as your parents; guess it’s come to bite me in the arse.”

“Why?” I demand. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But _you_ do!” she bellows. “And don’t you dare lie to me!”

I shrank back at the sudden display of anger directed at me. I swallow the invisible lump in my throat, sit up straight, and school my features so I don’t look scared. From the way she looks at me, though, I know she isn’t fooled.

She suddenly stands up and walks away without giving me so much of a glance. I follow her movement with my eyes until she leaves my peripheral. She is pacing behind me; I can tell that she is starting to lose her patience with me. I glance at the clock on the wall and stare at it to see how long she is going to ignore me. Exactly after three minutes and thirty-two seconds, she speaks; she asks me about my age, which is quite irrelevant, I think. I turn my body around to face her and tell her my answer. She nods as if having learned a piece of new information. Then, “Well, I suppose that you’re old enough now to have your own opinion. I’m not going to force you into believing what you don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

She stares at me dead in the eyes. “I mean, it’s time for you to be responsible for your choices. I can’t make you accept Bellatrix. I can’t make you forgive her, and me, for hurting you. Believe whatever it is you want to believe in, Druella.” She walks towards me and gives me a peck on the cheek. “We love you, even if you never grow to understand.” With that, she practically ushers me out of her quarters.

I stand outside her quarters, staring at the closed door before me for almost half an hour. Then I remember something. I dash away, books on my clutch, to the place I’ve never thought I’d ever go willingly—the Headmistress’ office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before you ask, I'll just answer the possible questions that may arise:  
> 1\. Will I ever update again? Yes. This is the only pairing I still can't let go even though everyone else seems to have moved on.  
> 2\. Will the next chapter be about what Dru and McGonagall talk about? Nope, doubt it.  
> 3\. Will the next chapter still talk about this subject matter? Again, nope.  
> 4\. But will it be revisited? Yes, definitely. And it will be concluded. I've planned on writing a chapter where Bella and Dru have a talk about this. But not now, sorry. Right now I'm just too emotionally drained to write about a misunderstanding between Dru and her parents. I need some lighter topic to keep me going.
> 
> That being said: feel free to prompt me about what I should write next.  
> Oh, and I have that other librarian story to update, too... ;) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, my darlings. Bless you all.


	10. As Good As It Gets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I should be updating Star, Wind, Sunshine and Love. I just don't feel like writing it yet. I will update, though, eventually. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is not a continuation of the last three-parter. No angst. In fact, it is quite a light chapter. 
> 
> As usual, I don't own anything except every single grammatical and spelling mistake. Hope you enjoy it.

“But Bella…”

“Absolutely no!”

My hand stops midair as my parents’ voices waft out of their bedroom, quite glad that I haven’t knocked at the door. Lowering my hand, I’m considering my options: Will it be safer for me just to go back to my room until either of them calls me for dinner or should I just knock? Probably I’ll just go with the latter—better stop whatever it is they’re arguing about before it turns into a full-blown cold war at the dinner table.

Taking a deep breath to brace myself, I tap on the door twice and open the door just a crack without waiting for them to answer, but I don’t barge in; I just lean my head on the wooden frame and ask, “Are you both decent?” No need for a repeat performance that’s left me scarred for life. The door swings wide open from the inside the next second, making me lose balance. I catch myself before diving nose first onto the carpet.

“Should’ve asked that before you open the door then, child,” Mother admonishes. She waves a hand lazily from the sofa and the door closes behind me. “What are you doing here?”

“Err… I live here?” I say, glancing quickly at Mama, who is half lying on their bed, and speaks with my eyes: _What’s her problem_? She winks at me but says nothing.

Mother clicks her tongue impatiently. “It’s still work hours. Did you get fired, child?” she asks.

I wag a finger at her as I take a seat on the other sofa. “Now that’s insulting,” I comment.

“Which part?” Mama chimes in, laughter laces her words. “The part in which Bella insinuates that you’re incompetent at your job or the part when she calls you a child?”

I shrug. “You choose,” I reply. I turn my head at Mother. “I’m not fired, if you really want to know. What are you arguing about this time, anyway?”

“We’re not arguing.”

“ _Fine_. What are you _discussing_ about, then?” I make a show by rephrasing on Mother’s protest.

“Ask your mother,” comes the reply from my raven-haired mother.

“As a matter of fact, I am asking her,” I deadpan, ignoring the murderous glare from the witch sitting across me.

“Your _other_ mother—she’s the one who isn’t making any sense.”

“Excuse me?!” Mama practically jumps out of bed and marches towards her wife. She has one hand on her hip as she’s towering over Mother. “What did you just say? _I’m_ the one who isn’t making any sense? _Me_? Honestly, Bellatrix, _you_ are the one who insists on making even the smallest things difficult.”

Uh-oh. She calls Mother ‘Bellatrix’. Bloody Merlin—I know I should’ve gone with my first option and stayed out of trouble. Now they’re going to make me choose side like they always do when they’re having the darnest arguments. “And now is when I shall leave you two,” I say, rising from the sofa. No matter how old you are, listening to your parents arguing is not the most comfortable thing.

“No, sit down.”

“Yes, Druella, leave.”

They speak at the same time, which makes matters even more complicated for me. My position isn’t exactly comfortable—between standing up and sitting down. I look at Mama, then at Mother, then back to Mama again; her raised eyebrows tell me that she knows whose order I’m going to follow. She scoffs as I cast an apologetic look at her before sinking back to my seat.

“Know it,” she grumbles.

I ignore her. “Do I even want to know what you’re disagreeing about now?”

 “Well, since you insist on staying.” Mama can be very intimidating when she uses her teacher's voice. “Bellatrix here,” she begins, “won’t allow me to invite Gabrielle and her children to stay here for the remaining of the summer. Petty.”

“Who’s Gabrielle?”

“Exactly my point!” Mother leaps on her chair, grinning at me as if I’m her accomplice—which I’m not. She lifts her chin arrogantly as she stares at her wife. “You see? I don’t know her. Druella doesn’t know her. Even you only know her because she’s that Weasley woman Fleur’s sister. I don’t see why I should let people we hardly know anything about stay in our house. For all I know, that woman or her children can be a lunatic murderer.”

I almost, _almost_ blurt out ‘look who’s talking’, but thank goodness I have enough self-restrain—or self-preservation, whichever you want to put it. That is still a touchy subject to mention even after decades, and saying it out loud will ensure my parents’ coming together to kill me. I’m not going to make that mistake.

Mama looks at me exasperatedly, pleading that I talk some sense into Mother. Which, of course, I won’t. Showing any kind of support to either of them during is a one-way ticket to hell. I keep my mouth shut as Mama explains who Gabrielle Delacour is and why she needs to be staying with us at the castle instead of with the Weasleys.

Then, of course, my stupid mouth forgets that it should be shut at all time. “Well, if there isn’t enough space at the Weasleys’ why can’t they stay at the Potters’? Uncle Harry’s house is practically empty since Lily moved to Spain last year.” I regret it the moment the first sound comes out of my mouth. _Druella Black, you stupid, drooling toad!_

“Why did I not think about that? Thank you for pointing that out,” Mama comments sarcastically.

“But if you want to have them here I have no problems with that—the castle’s big enough for fifty more people even.” Now I can feel Mother’s eyes on me. Word of advice for those of you out there having two mothers—just stay out of their argument. You’ll get burned no matter whom you agree with. I clear my throat. “Why do you want them to stay here, anyway?”

“She’s my friend.”

“No, she’s not. You just want her here to introduce Dru to one of her sons.”

“Bella!”

Wait, _what_?! “And why would she do that?” I ask, addressing my Mama, who is too busy glaring at her counterpart to notice. “Mama?”

Mother goes on with her rant, “Like I would let my daughter marry a Veela.” She grabs a glass of wine from the table next to her and drinks the content in a swig. “Foul creatures,” she says, “If I want my child to marry anyone below her birth, I’d just let her marry one of those Potter boys—at least that way she’ll get Grimmauld Place back.”

“Bellatrix Black!”

Mama’s warning comes a little bit too late. My eyes are as big as saucers by the time Mother finishes talking. I can’t believe my ears—how could she speak about me like I’m a property? This is outrageous.

“Don’t listen to her, Dru—she doesn’t mean any of it.” Mama tries to placate me, knowing fully well that my temper is rising. “We weren’t talking about anything regarding marriage. Isn’t that right, Bellatrix?” Her voice is cold as she addresses Mother.

The dark woman says nothing.

“Have you gone mad? What year is this that you’re still thinking it’s alright to marry me off like a horse?” I snap at both of them. I’m also really angry with myself. _This is what you’ve got for meddling, Dru_.

“Manner, Druella,” Mama warns me. Like you would care about manners when you find out that your parents want to marry you off. “Check that temper of yours—you’re as bad as your mother. Nobody is talking about you marrying anyone. Bellatrix is just being her usual disagreeable self, and she plays you right into it.”

Before Mother can retaliate, I say, “Good. Because I’m not marrying anyone. By Merlin, who wants to get married after spending a quarter of a century listening to you two bicker on every single darnest thing.” I sit on the nearest sofa. “No, thank you very much. I’ll spend the rest of my life alone if it means that I can invite anyone I like without asking anyone’s permission about it.”

“Tough luck, child—you're still living under my roof,” Mother points out. She sounds relieved that I am not yelling bloody murder at her.

My heart leaps as she says those words. This is my chance. “Well… that’s one thing I need to speak to you about.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said anything!” Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother talking to my Mother. It’s like talking to a garden gnome.

Mother flicks her curly dark hair. “You don’t need to—I figure it’ll be something ridiculous. The answer is still ‘no’ whatever it is.”

“Wanting to live on my own is not ridiculous.”

“And where d’you reckon you’d live? On the streets?” she taunts. “You don’t even have enough money to buy a house.”

That’s true, but I’m not going to relent. “I can rent an apartment. It’s cheaper. I have enough money for that.”

“And why would you do such thing? This castle, like you pointed out oh-so-cleverly earlier, is big enough for fifty other people. Or did I hear incorrectly?”

I turn to my other mother; I’m not above begging. “Mama?” She smiles empathically at me, but I know that she agrees with Mother. Ugh. “I’m twenty-five. Legally, I’m an adult.”

“Then act like one,” replies Mother. She really should take her own advice, shouldn’t she? “A ‘no’ isn’t going to change just because you are an adult, Druella. Just move out when I’m dead if you really insist on it.”

“There’ll be no point of moving out then! This place will be mine if you’re dead,” I roar in frustration. “Mama, please—… where are you going?”

The woman is already halfway out of the door when I call her out. “I’m staying out of this conversation,” she says as she walks out the room, only to pop her head back in the next second. She looks at Mother right in the eyes. “Oh, Bella darling, we’re expecting Gabrielle and her children in a week.” She gives the older woman the sweetest smile and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with Mother.

“So,” I break the silence after a few seconds, “that’s how she wins all the arguments.”

“Don’t be daft—she doesn’t win _all_ the arguments.” She says, offended. “Just most of them.”

I snort at that. And she laughs. All tension between us evaporates just like that in a matter of seconds.

“I’m not changing my mind, though, child,” Mother says after her laughter dies down.

I nod. “I know. Still, it doesn’t hurt trying.”

“What? You’re not going to fight me on it?” She looks genuinely surprised, which turns quickly into amusement when I tell her that I don’t have the heart to pursue it after she lost that crazy argument with Mama. “Oh, you sweet thing. C’mere, give your old lady a hug.”

I let her wrap me in her arms like when I was still a little girl. She still smells the same, still feels the same—strong and loving at the same time. I hug her a little bit tighter as a sad thought crosses my mind. “I’ll stay here forever if you promise to live forever,” I whisper on the crook of her neck.

She kisses the top of my head. “I wish I could make that promise, love,” she whispers back. I know she’s not only thinking about me when she says those words. “I really wish I could.”

“Will it bother you that much if I never marry anyone?” I ask after some time, shifting as not to crush Mother.

“Why?”

I look up to see her staring at me in confusion. “Aside from the fact that I want to be able to invite people over to my house without having to ask anyone? I don’t know—maybe because I just don’t feel like the marrying type. And I don’t know if I’ve ever had any more than platonic feelings towards others, male or female.”

“No, not that—I mean the other part.”

“Huh?” Now _I_ am confused.

“Why do you think it will bother me?”

I wiggle out of her embrace and sit up. “I thought…—You sounded upset earlier about Mama’s wanting to invite that Gabrielle woman. You said something about me better off marrying one of the Potters.”

She tilts her head. “Your point?”

Well, this is awkward. “Well, as you’ve put it a thousand times before, we are the last of the Blacks. If I die without an heir to Black name then our name will be extinct.” It does sound absurd now that I put the thought into words—I swear it sounded like a good, eloquent opinion in my head.

“So what if it does? Ours isn’t the first name that goes extinct in the history of surnames. Why the fuss?” Mother asks. “Besides, it won’t be the first time our name dies. Since you seem to be quite oblivious to the family history—shame on you, Miss Black—My cousins Sirius and Regulus were the last of the Blacks after your Aunt Cissy and Andy, and I got married. Then Reggy died. And Sirius died.” She looks quite sheepish at the mention of her cousins’ death. Clearing her throat, she continues, “The only reason our name is still around now is because I take my maiden name back, got married to Hermione, and have you. Otherwise, it’d stay dead. Names come and go—no need to cry a river about it. Why do you care anyway?”

“What about our property?”

“Our prop— _What_? Are you drunk?”

My cheeks are really hot now. I know I should’ve talked to Mama instead. This is beginning to be very embarrassing. “I’m being serious here, Mum!” She still hates me calling her that. “If I die without an heir then our property will go to others.”

“And? I’ll be dead by then. You’ll be dead, too. Dead people don’t need castles and lands and what not, do they?”

“But you are still annoyed that Grimmauld Place now belongs to Uncle Harry,” I point out.

She tuts. “I’m not _annoyed_ that Grimmauld Place doesn’t belong to the Blacks anymore. I just don’t really like the fact that it belongs to the Potters.”

“You still hold a grudge against them?” I’m honestly curious. I’ve been wanting to ask her about this since I found out about their history, but Mama doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

“I don’t,” she answers straightforwardly. “I don’t need to hate someone to complain about them, do I? And you, Druella, need to learn more about our family history. Potter’s great-grandmother is my Grandaunt Dorea. He’s still family after all… ugh, my mouth is sour saying that.” She exaggeratedly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and laughs as I laugh. “Well, if it makes you feel better, everything we own will go to the Malfoys, not the Potters, if you die without any children. It’s as good as it gets, really.”

It doesn’t make me feel better, but I concede—fully aware that if I continue on with this Mother will be worried about me. She sobers up, clearly knowing that I’m not alright. Gently, Mother reaches out and traces my cheek with her finger. She cradles my chin and looks me in the eyes. “You really worry about it, don’t you, little raven?” I nod. She kisses my nose. “Please don’t. They’re just things, and only the living need things.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“When have you ever?” That, coming from my mother, is the closest thing to a compliment I will ever receive. She hugs me again before shoving me off lightly. “Now, enough with this foolish talk—Look at the time! No wonder I’m hungry. Go find your mother and tell her to stop writing that wretched invitation letter.”

“I love you, Mother,” I say before leaving the room.

“Go away,” she replies. But she is smiling as I close the door behind me.

Well, it really is as good as it gets.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When people ask me whether Dru will be gay or not, I honestly don't know what to say because I never think of it when I created her character. I suppose it won't change anything if she's an ace, will it? Thoughts?


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